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I had to go over all the papers of privates as v/ell as 
officers and copy out their records." 



THE 
TOMBOY AT WORK 



BY 



JEANNETTE L. GILDER 

Author of " The Autobiography of a Tomboy " 



ILLUSttLATED "BY FLORENCE SCOVEL SHINN 




NEW YORK 

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO. 
1904 






LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Coptes KeceivcQ 

NOV 25 1^4 

Copyrignx tnirii 
USS O^ XXc Noi 



COPY B. 



Copyright, 1904, by 

Jeannette L. Gilder 

Published, October, 1904 



^ 



TO 

the friend of my youth and of 

my riper years 

Clara Louise Kellogg-Strakosch 



Contents 



CHAPTER PAGE 

1 3 

II .19 

III 31 

IV. 45 

V. 59 

VI 73 

VII 89 

VIII loi 

IX no 

X 120 

XI . 128 

XII 137 

XIII 151 

XIV 162 

XV 174 

XVI 184 

XVIL 193 

XVIII 202 

XIX .213 

XX 221 

XXI 234 

XXII 242 

Tomboy at Work— Cut of! 



List of Illustrations 

*' I had to go over all the papers 
of privates as well as officers 
and copy out their records " 



Frontispiece 



Facing Page 

'''Why not wear a necktie?' I 

answered" .... 34 

"But neither the horse nor his 
rider had reckoned with the 
tide" 40 

"'You have saved my life,' she 
said gaily, 'but,' pointing to 
the rails, *I have lost my 
sole'" 52 



* I may be only sixteen years old, 

but I know men " . . .66 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS— Continued 

Facing Page 

" Mme. Parepa-Rosa was a woman 
of more than ample propor- 
tions, but from that large 
throat issued a voice of un- 
usual sweetness and birdlike 
quality " . . . .70 

** I enjoyed the performance tre- 
mendously, and applauded 
with might and main — much 
to the detriment of my opera 
bonnet " . . . .72 

"... crossed her hands with 

unusual effect " . . .86 

** I would sing as many as twenty 

verses " . 99 

*' The young man, not to be 
'stumped,' took the thing in 
his arms and waltzed quite 
aroimd the room with it " . 104 

***If a burglar comes, he will 
think that there is a man in 
the house,' answered Kate " 138 



LIST OF ILUJSTRATIONS-Continued 

Facing Pagk 

** Clara Louise Kellogg . . . 
was the first really famous 
person I had ever met " . 144 

''Her high notes were her best" 179 

" In his long ulster and peaked 

astrachan cap " ... . 203^ 

"Our standing order was 'pea 

soup and a French kiss"* . 210 

Hannah 222 



The Tomboy 
at Work 



The Tomboy 
at Work 

CHAPTER I 

"Men must work and women must 
weep " was a line that was quoted to me 
every time I expressed a determination 
to make my ov/n living, and, incidentally, 
that of others. A stupid line, I thought 
it. Why should men have all the fun 
of working, while the women stayed at 
home and wept? The sentiment did not 
appeal to me at all. I had no inclination 
for weeping, and I had a decided inclina- 
tion for working. 

Even if I had not realised the necessity 

of work after my father's death, I could 

not have kept out of the working world. 

It was not in me to stay at home and 

3 



4 The Tomboy at Work 

weep, while the men "went sailing out 
into the west." I wanted to sail out 
into the west, too, and to catch fish as 
well as they. Just what sort of fish I 
was going to catch I did not know, but 
I fully made up my mind to cast my net 
and see what happened. I knew then, as 
I know now, that there was work for the 
willing, if not sooner, then later; and I 
intended to get mine sooner. 

There were not many things for women 
to do in those days, and fewer in Birdling- 
ton than in most places. There was a 
woman in the post-office — -she was the 
postmaster's wife, to be sure, — a kindly 
soul, who did not seem to take much 
interest in her business, possibly because 
she had so much else to do. She was 
stout, and rather scant of breath, and I 
noticed that it was as much as she could 
do to reach the top boxes even when 
she stood tiptoe. There I had the ad- 
vantage of her. It was the lower boxes 
that would give me the most trouble. 



The Tomboy at Work 5 

Perhaps it wotdd be a relief to the good 
woman if I should offer to take her posi- 
tion. The only way to find out was to 
ask. 

"Mrs. Farnum, do you like to sort the 
mail and hand out the letters?" I in- 
quired. 

"I can't say I'm over partial to it," 
she answered frankly. 

"How would you like me to take your 
place?" 

Mrs. Farnum was a pleasant-looking 
woman, with round, rosy cheeks, well 
screened by dancing brown ringlets. She 
looked through the little window, and 
shook her ringlets at me. "You're rather 
young to be sorting over letters, but you're 
tall for your age. You cotild get at them 
top boxes easier than I can. I don't mind 
your trying, but I guess you'll get pretty 
tired of the job before long." 

"Not much," I exclaimed joyously. 
"I couldn't get tired of anything if I was 
earning my living." 



6 The Tomboy at Work 

"Earning your living!" and the ringlets 
stood still with surprise. "Lord save us 
and bless us ! Why, there ain't no money 
in it for me. I do it just to help Farnum." 

"No money in it," I echoed dejectedly; 
for I had seen visions of a weekly stipend, 
which, if small, would at least be some- 
thing to start with. "I've got to earn 
money, so I'm afraid that I can't take 
the job. Good morning." 

In these days, I should no doubt have 
thought of going on the stage, but the only 
stage that I knew anything about in those 
days was the one that ran between Bird- 
lington and Crosswicks, and I should as 
soon have thought of riding to success on 
a hay-wagon as on that slow-going vehicle. 
The subject was one of daily discussion in 
the family, where, I am free to confess, 
my ideas were looked upon as somewhat 
Quixotic. But I was determined. 

"What do you propose?" asked Aunt 
Maria. 

"Propose? I don't propose. This is 



The Tomboy at Work 7 

not leap-year," I replied pertly, for there 
was a note of doubt in her voice. 

"Don't be rude, Nell," said my mother. 
"It is only right that your Aunt Maria 
and I should know what sort of work you 
expect to do." 

"I can go into an office." 
"Go into an office! Any one could do 
that, but what would you do when you 
got there.?" This with a touch of sarcasm 
from Aunt Maria. 

"I would sweep it out, if necessary," I 
answered, somewhat nettled. "I think 
I should like that. So many great men 
have begun by sweeping out an office." 

"Great men, yes; but have you ever 
heard of a great woman who began her 
career by sweeping out an office.?" asked 
Aunt Maria. 

"It does not make any difference to me 
what others have done; my mind is made 
up. I am going into an office, and I am 
going to write." 

"You will do something. There is no 



8 The Tomboy at Work 

doubt about that, Nell. And I dare say 
that I shall get used to it; but it seems 
a terrible thing to me for a girl scarcely 
fifteen to go out into the worid to earn 
her living," said my mother, with a little 
shake in her voice. 

"It is not respectable," said Aunt 
Maria, who was more conventional than 
my mother, and had rigid ideas of woman's 
sphere. 

"Not respectable," I exclaimed. "Look 
at Rosa Bonheur, Harriet Hosmer, and — 
and — and Dr. Mary Walker." 

" Dr. Mary Walker! " Aunt Maria turned 
pale. "If that's your idea, the sooner 
you get rid of it the better. Not one of 
the women you mention proves your 
argument, for they one and all admit that 
a woman has no right to go out into the 
world to work, by making themselves look 
as much like men as possible. Please do 
not mention their names in my presence 
again." She really shuddered as she left 
the room. 



The Tomboy at Work 9 

I could not blame Aunt Maria for her 
point of view, as it was the only one held 
in those days. Girls were not supposed 
to occupy themselves with anything but 
sewing and housekeeping. Anything like 
independence was shocking, and to be de- 
plored. My mother was more pained than 
shocked at my determination, but she 
realised that my brother Dixey had taken 
a pretty heavy burden upon his none too 
broad shoulders, and, in her heart, she 
applauded the spirit that urged me on to 
do my share of the work that had to be 
done. 

To find the right thing and to do it was 
no easy task, but I was blessed with a 
sanguine disposition, and no obstacle seemed 
insurmountable. There was an old book 
in my attic book-case called, if I remember 
correctly, "Hazen's Book of Trades." I 
studied it closely for suggestions, but, as 
all of them were men's trades, I got few or 
no hints from that source. The only one 
that attracted me was that of the printer. 



lo The Tomboy at Work 

I wanted to be where I could hear the 
click of the type and smell the black and 
greasy odor of printer's ink. And then 
I wished to be as much like Benjamin 
Franklin as possible. I should have liked 
to walk up Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, 
with a loaf of bread under each arm, to 
make the likeness complete; but a certain 
sense of propriety restrained me. The 
next best thing was to speak to the editor, 
who was also the proprietor and sole 
reporter, of our local weekly, and ask him 
if he would let me do some reporting for 
him. 

"There is nothing to report," he said. 
And, judging by the news columns of his 
paper, he spoke the truth. 

At night, after I had retired to my attic 
room, I lay awake for hours, it seemed to 
me, wondering what was the best thing to 
do. It was quite plain that Birdlington 
presented no opportunities aside from 
farming. I thought of growing hops, but 
was deterred by Aunt Maria, who said 



The Tomboy at Work ii 

that hops were only used to make beer, 
which she, being of temperance principles, 
did not approve of. I turned to the Weekly 
Forum for agricultural hints, and there 
read of the large profits made from 
grapes. Again Aunt Maria disapproved. 
Grapes were profitable only when they 
were made into wine, and no wine-producing 
fruit should be grown at Fair View. As 
the place was hers, I had to obey. There 
were other reasons why I did not plant 
vineyards — one being a lack of the neces- 
sary means. 

About this time, a book called "Ten 
Acres Enough" fell into my hands. If 
ten acres were enough, how much more 
than enough were fourteen! Fair View 
consisted of fourteen, the most of it 
tillable. There was a lovely meadow 
with a brook babbling through it, an 
orchard, a three-acre lot where we grew 
oats, and a vegetable garden. The 
meadow was given over to blackberry 
bushes and brambles, but it was very 



12 The Tomboy at Work 

picturesque, with its spreading chestnut 
trees; a lovely place for picnics. In my 
mother's childhood, the only water used 
at the house was hauled up from this 
brook in barrels. A springless cart, to 
which an old horse was hitched, brought 
the barrel up the lane to the house. To 
sit in the cart was not a very pleasant way 
of getting down to the brook, but an old 
man working on the place thought that 
he would like to try it. He remarked 
afterward that, if it had not been for 
the name of riding, he would rather have 
walked. It was a pretty bumpy road 
through the lane, and it is to this day. 
This same old man was employed to fetch 
the water to the house, and at the end of 
the week he presented his bill to my 
grandmother. This is the way it read: 

"Dit dut 
T brin d watter .... 2 bites." 

To the average reader, this means 
nothing. It might be hieroglyphics from 



The Tomboy at Work 13 

the tomb of Rameses, or it might be 
a doctor's prescription. To my grand- 
mother, it was plain enough. "Dit dut" 
meant "Mis' Nutt." The man had no 
palate, and that was the way he pro- 
nounced it. "To bringing ditto water, 
two bits," a bit being a shilling. For 
many years this unique bill was preserved 
at Fair View. 

To return to farming: I read "Ten 
Acres Enough" with the greatest avidity. 
The place described v/as not more than 
ten miles down the river from Birdlington, 
and what could be done at Burlington 
could be done at Birdlington. When 
I realised, however, how long it would take 
to reap any profits from such a venture, 
I decided that the best thing to do 
was to get some work that led to im- 
mediate results. I did not let the family 
know that I was finding it difficult to 
decide upon a line of work, but kept up a 
bold front and thought hard. In thinking 
over things one night, I remembered that 



14 The Tomboy at Work 

my father was well acquainted with the 
members of a famous publishing house 
in New York, so I decided to write to the 
firm and see what they could offer me. 

Very promptly an answer came, written 
in a beautiful, clear hand. The writer, 
one of the brothers, spoke affectionately 
and admiringly of my father, and ex- 
pressed a wish that he could meet my 
request with the offer of a position. 
They did not employ women outside of the 
bindery, and he could hardly ask my 
father's daughter to take a position there. 
If I was a boy, now, he could soon give 
me something to do, for there was a va- 
cancy in the bookkeeper's department. 

I was not in the least discouraged by 
that letter, but sat down at once and 
answered it. I offered to take the book- 
keeper's position. "To be sure," I wrote, 
"I don't know anything about book- 
keeping, but I think that I can learn all 
that is necessary inside of two weeks, and 
then I will be able to keep the books of 



The Tomboy at Work 15 

your firm." I can imagine the twinkle in 
the eye of the kindly old gentleman when 
he read my letter. He answered it, 
however, without poking fun at me, and 
said that it was the rule of the house to 
have only men bookkeepers, and they 
could not break it, much as they would 
like to, for me. So that incident was 
closed. 

Dixey had given up the position that he 
held as assistant paymaster on the rail- 
road that ran through Birdlington, and 
had become a reporter on a Newark news- 
paper. This was much more to his taste, 
for he, too, loved the smell of printer's 
ink. He would have held on to the posi- 
tion of paymaster, however, as it enabled 
him to live at home, but he was convinced 
from certain things that happened that 
that was not his Hne of work. His mind 
was on other things, no matter how he 
tried to keep it on the business in hand. 
One day he went out on the road in a 
hand-car to pay off the men. He had 



i6 The Tomboy at Work 

thirty thousand dollars tied up in an old 
newspaper, to avoid attracting attention. 
At a wayside shanty, where he stopped to 
get a bite of lunch, he fell to reading a 
volume of poems that he carried in his 
pocket. When he finished the poem, he 
put the book back in his pocket and 
started out on the hand- car. He had not 
gone many miles down the road before he 
missed the parcel. Had he dropped it on 
the way ? or left it at the shanty ? Telling 
the men they would have to go back, 
as he had left something, he returned to 
the shanty. Putting on as calm an ex- 
terior as possible, he asked the old woman, 
"Did I leave anything here?" 

"Nothin' much," she replied, "some old 
newspapers is all. I was going to light the 
fire with them, but my old man is such 
a reader I thought he'd kinder like to 
read 'em"; and she fished the parcel out 
from under a broken-down old sofa, where 
she had kicked it out of the way. 

"I'm so glad that your husband is a 



The Tomboy at Work 17 

reader," said Dixey, clasping the parcel 
tightly in his arms. " I had some things 
tied up in that parcel that I shouldn't have 
liked to lose. Thank you very • much. 
I'll send a book to your husband." 

"Much obleeged," replied the woman, 
"but it ain't wuth it." 

Dixey called upon the president of the 
road, told him what had happened, and 
offered his resignation. The president 
would not accept it at first, but when he 
found that Dixey was in earnest, he told 
him that he would be allowed to go only 
when he had found a more congenial 
place. This came in a short time, and was 
the position on the Newark paper. It was 
in reading this paper that I found my 
first work. 

Among the news items was one which 
said that a Newark journalist, Mr. John 
Y. Foster, was about to write the history 
of the New Jersey troops in the Civil 
War, then just over. The paragraph pro- 
ceeded to say that much of Mr. Foster's 



i8 The Tomboy at Work 

work would have to be done in Trenton, 
where the necessary records were kept in 
the archives of the Adjutant- General's 
office. I saw my opportunity, and im- 
mediately sat down and wrote a letter to 
Mr. Foster. As I had often heard Dixey 
speak of him, I knew that he would 
recognise my name. I told him who I 
was, and said I should like to help him 
write his history. I did not mention my 
qualifications, or lack of them, for the 
work, but he must have liked my con- 
fidence (not to put too harsh a name 
upon it), and noticed that I wrote a bold 
round hand. In the course of a few 
days, Mr. Foster's letter came. In it 
he said that he was looking for some 
one to search the records in the 
Adjutant- General's office for him, and, if 
I would call upon him at his hotel in 
Trenton, he would be glad to talk it over. 
I am not quite sure how I got home 
with that letter. I suppose that I ran, 
but those who saw me said that I flew. 



CHAPTER II 

Dashing up the stairs to my mother's 
room, with the letter in my hand, I 
shouted at the top of my voice, "Mother, 
I've got it." As chicken-pox was raging 
among the young people of Birdlington at 
that time, my mother naturally thought 
I had fallen a victim to the malady, but 
she was reassured before she had time to 
express her fears. 

"I've got the position, and it's in an 
office, too." 

Then I rushed to the window, where I 
saw Aunt Maria walking down the garden 
path. "Auntie," I shrieked, waving the 
letter, "I've got it." 

" I should think you had got something," 
replied Aunt Maria, as she turned and 
regarded me, waiting for the next an- 
nouncement. 

19 



20 The Tomboy at Work 

"Come in, and I'll tell you all about it." 

I had not informed the family that I 
had written to Mr. Foster, so their surprise 
was not unnatural. I now told my mother 
and Aunt Maria what I had done, and that 
I had accomplished my object. 

"I don't quite see that you have ac- 
complished your object just yet," said 
Aunt Maria, who was inclined to be 
skeptical. "Mr. Foster is good enough 
to say that he will see you, but when 
he sees you he may think you are too 
young. He may want some one who 
lives in Trenton. There are a thousand 
and one reasons why you may not get the 
position." 

"There are a thousand and one why I 
may," I answered. "I haven't the slight- 
est doubt about it, and I am going to 
Trenton at once." 

"I will go with you," said my mother, 
"for I don't think that it would look just 
right for a girl of your age to be going to 
see a strange man alone, even on business." 



The Tomboy at Work 21 

"All right, mother," I answered. "I 
shall be glad to have you go; but, if I 
get the position, you know that you can- 
not go with me every day." 

"More's the pity," said my mother, 
with a touch of regret in her voice. 

There was a good deal of excitement in 
the household that evening. The children 
were very much interested, and seemed to 
agree with me that it was a foregone con- 
clusion that I should get the position. 

"It isn't the first time you have set out 
to seek your fortune," said Marty, re- 
ferring to an incident in the past that 
might better have been forgotten. So I 
made no reply to her remark. 

Trenton was about six miles by railroad 
from Birdlington. The track runs be- 
tween the river and a creek ; the latter does 
not go all the way to Trenton, but the 
river does; and many a time I have 
skated on its frozen surface from Birdling- 
ton to the State capital. 

The morning after the receipt of the 



22 The Tomboy at Work 

wonderful letter, my mother and I started 
out for Trenton. It seemed to me that 
the train never went so slowly — at best 
it was not fast; but finally we got there, 
and found Mr. Foster at his hotel. He 
smiled benignly upon me, and addressed 
his conversation to my mother, explaining 
to her what the position was and what the 
hours were likely to be. 

"I am afraid you will have to be here 
pretty early in the morning," he said, 
still addressing my mother. 

"It is not my mother that wants the 
position. It is I. I wrote you the letter 
about it." 

Mr. Foster turned toward me with 
surprise. 

"You !" said he. " I had no idea it was 
so young a person." 

"I hope that that will not prevent my 
getting the position." 

"No," said he slowly, "I don't know 
that it will. You write a good hand, and 
you seem to have a lot of go in you. I 



The Tomboy at Work 23 

think I will try you. You can begin work 
day after to-morrow. The pay will be 
ten dollars a week." 

I nearly fell off my chair. Ten dollars 
a week! If he had said five, I should 
have thought myself rich. 

"What time in the morning can you get 
here?" asked Mr. Foster. "The office 
opens for work at about eight." 

I consulted the time-table. There was 
a train at six, and another at eight. The 
six o'clock train would get me to the 
State House, if I walked from the station, 
which I proposed doing, at about seven 
o'clock. The eight o'clock would not get 
me there until nearly nine. 

"I will take the six o'clock," said I, 
promptly. And I did. 

The fare from Birdlington to Trenton 
was not very much, but it was something, 
and I did not propose spending any of my 
money unnecessarily. My family needed 
it much more than the railroad, I thought, 
and I decided that I would get a pass. 



24 The Tomboy at Work 

The superintendent of the road, lived at 
Birdlington. I knew him well, and, as 
soon as I returned home, I called at his 
office. 

"Mr. Van Schuyler," said I, "I want an 
annual pass to Trenton." 

He looked down at me from his six feet 
two, and said, with an expression of 
amusement on his face, "Why should I 
give you an annual pass to Trenton?" 

"Because I need it," said I. "I have 
just got a position there, and I don't want 
to spend any of my money on car fare. 
I have too much else to do with it." 

Mr. Van Schuyler knew the situation of 
my affairs pretty well, and he knew that 
passes were dealt out liberally in those days. 
"I think I shall have to let yau have one," 
he said; and he sat down at his desk and 
wrote it out for me. 

Armed with a pass and a prospective ten 
dollars a week, I would not have asked odds 
of a Rothschild. Why, Dixey, who was 
several years older than I was, only got 



The Tomboy at Work 25 

that much, and he had to pay his board 
out of it. His board (he Hved with the 
business manager of the paper) was only- 
five dollars a week, and he sent five 
home. He paid for incidentals by writ- 
ing poems. One year he wrote the letter- 
carriers' New Year's address, and got — I 
don't remember just what, but I dare say it 
was twenty-five dollars: a tidy sum for an 
occasional poem by an unknown poet. My 
earnings were all clear gain, and after my 
mother had become reconciled to the situa- 
tion she was very proud of me ; and even 
Aunt Maria agreed that ten dollars a week 
was not to be sneezed at, even if it was 
earned by a girl. 

To get the six o'clock train for Trenton, 
I got up at four. There was never a time 
in my life that I could dress in fifteen or 
twenty minutes. I had a tub in my room 
that I had rigged up with a pipe leading 
outside, so that I had only to pull a cork to 
let the water run ofl. To be sure, I had to 
pour the water in, but that was a small 



26 The Tomboy at Work 

item. No porcelain tub ever gave greater 
satisfaction than that tin tub with its cork 
plug gave me. It took me nearly an hour 
to bathe and dress ; then I had a half -hour 
for my breakfast, and a half -hour to get to 
the station, which was a little less than 
three-quarters of a mile from the house. 

It was in September that I began work, 
and I did not mind getting up at four in 
the least ; but as the days grew shorter and 
colder it was different. The first of the 
dark mornings scared me. It was as dark 
as night when I started out, so that Ellen, 
our faithful maid-of -all -work, used to walk 
with me as far as the village. Good, kind 
Ellen! Never shall I forget the break- 
fasts she used to cook for me by candle- 
light. It did not take her quite as long as 
it did me to dress in the morning, so that 
she got up later, but she always had my 
breakfast on time. Nothing was a trouble 
to her if it made me comfortable. The 
only time I ever saw her out of humour was 
one wash-day. She had a large wash to 



The Tomboy at Work 27 

do, but she got at it early, as she always 
enjoyed getting it out on the lines before 
her neighbours. 

On this particular day, Sandy came up 
from the village with a huge turtle that he 
had ordered from Philadelphia. He told 
Ellen that he had invited a few friends to 
luncheon, and he wanted to give them 
turtle soup. 

"Turtle soup, is it?" exclaimed Ellen. 
"Where are you going to get turtle soup?" 

"You are going to make it," replied 
Sandy blandly, "and here's the turtle." 
With that he let the turtle loose upon the 
kitchen floor. 

"For the love of St. Patrick!" shrieked 
Ellen, and sprang upon the wash-bench, 
overturning the tubs, and burying the 
turtle under the suds-soaked clothes. Only 
by a quick backward jump did Sandy 
escape the deluge. As he jumped, he made 
a remark about St. Patrick that Ellen did 
not like, and she ordered him and the turtle 
out of the kitchen. She was a powerful 



28 The Tomboy at Work 

woman and a good cook, so Sandy thought 
it best not to provoke her too far, and he 
didn't. 

The turtle was put under a box in the 
orchard, and the guests who had been 
bidden to the feast that did not come off 
were invited out to see it. Sandy turned 
the box over gently, but the turtle had 
gone. If all that Mr. Thompson Seton 
says about the intelligence of beasts and 
reptiles be true, that turtle had heard the 
conversation about the soup, and had 
escaped from under the box rather than 
see itself sacrificed upon the altar of Sandy's 
epicurean appetite. 

That was Ellen's one and only outburst 
while she lived with us, and who shall say 
that she had not provocation? I am the 
more amazed that she got up so cheerfully 
in the early mornings, for she did not go to 
bed with the chickens. She was "keeping 
company" at the time, and I am sure her 
"steady" stayed fairly late, for I could 
smell kerosene oil long after the family 



The Tomboy at Work 29 

had retired; and, as you know, kerosene 
only smells when the light is turned low. 

One morning there was a thick fog when 
I started out, but otherwise it was light 
enough. In a little gully by the side of the 
road, I saw something. Before I could 
make out what it was, it had disappeared. 
I ran back to the house and told Ellen 
about it. She had no doubt as to what it 
was. 

"It was a ghost." 

I shivered. 

"Was it, really?" 

"Of course." It had come down from 
the cemetery, which was only a little way 
up the road, and it would go back again. 

"I wish it would hurry and go back." 

"It's gone back by this time, I guess," 
said Ellen, "but I'll go down the road with 
you because you're scared." 

"No, I'm not. I don't believe in ghosts, 
but I don't want to meet another, and you 
may go with me if you like." 

It was getting late, and we hurried down 



30 The Tomboy at Work 

the road. A neighbour was driving a cow 
in front of us. 

"Good mornin'," said he; "I've just 
found my old cow. She got lost in the fog 
down in the gully." 

"Oh, I'm so glad!" He regarded me 
with amazement. " For, then, it was a cow 
and not a ghost. I told you, Ellen." 

But Ellen only smiled pit3dngly upon me. 
She had not been born in Ireland for noth- 
ing. She knew a ghost when I saw it. 
That was the first and last ghost to cross 
my path. 

The six o'clock train got me to the State 
House door before seven, and often I had 
to wait in the cold for the janitor to open 
the doors. But do you think I minded 
that? Not a bit of it. It was part of 
the fun of working. 



CHAPTER III 

The Adjutant-General's office was in the 
State House, as I have said. It was a 
large room, with windows overlooking the 
Delaware River. The Adjutant-General's 
desk was by one of the windows. Mine was 
farther back in the room. The Adjutant- 
General himself was a young man, and a 
very handsome young man at that. He 
had dark-brown curling hair, a long brown 
mustache, dark -blue eyes, and rosy cheeks. 
He usually wore a frock coat — Prince Al- 
berts, we called them in those days, — and 
he crowned his curling hair with a wide- 
rimmed soft felt hat such as was worn in 
the army during the war. There were 
three other men in the office: an old man 
with a gray beard, a young man with a 
blond mustache, and a still younger man 
with no mustache or beard of any sort. 
31 



32 The Tomboy at Work 

The blond man was a fireman as well as a 
government clerk, and he killed two birds 
with one stone by wearing his fireman's 
coat as an overcoat. I admired it very 
much, for it was lined with scarlet and 
ornamented with brass buttons. 

There was still another man, but he was 
not there very long, if I remember rightly. 
He made a strong impression upon my 
mind, for I heard him say, one day, that 
he could place his hand upon his heart and 
say that he owed nothing to any man. 
The graybeard sighed, and said that he could 
place his hand upon his heart and say 
that he owed every man something. I 
fancy he had a good deal of use for his 
money, and that he did not get very high 
pay. He wore the same clothes, as long as 
I was in the office, and I dare say that he 
wore them even longer than that. His 
collars and ties were fearfully and wonder- 
fully made. Instead of wearing the sort 
of ties that most men wore, he had a piece 
of velvet ribbon tied under his collar. He 



The Tomboy at Work 33 

confided to me one day that he was very- 
much put to it to know what to wear for a 
necktie, and he asked me what I could 
suggest. 

"Why not wear a necktie?" I answered. 

"A good idea," said he. "I never 
thought of that." 

So he bought himself a real tie, and dis- 
carded the velvet ribbon from that mo- 
ment. 

I was the only woman or girl employed 
in the State House, and I was regarded with 
a good deal of curiosity, and, I may add, 
was treated with the utmost courtesy. 
The men knew that I was the daughter of a 
soldier who had given his life for his coun- 
try, and they did all they could to help me. 
As for the Adjutant-General, he was one of 
the finest men I ever knew. If I had been 
his own sister, he could not have been 
kinder or more considerate. 

My work was only clerical, and was not 
very hard. Neither was it very interest- 
ing. I had to go over all the papers of 



34 The Tomboy at Work 

privates as well as of officers, and copy out 
their records. These were turned over to 
Mr. Foster, who used them as material for 
his book. 

While I got to the office very early in the 
morning, I did not have to stay very late. 
I took the four o'clock train for Birdlington, 
and, as soon as I arrrived, I went down to 
the Redmonds, and usually stayed there to 
supper and to have a good time; for there 
was a houseful of young people. I have 
never believed in the all-work-and-no-play 
idea. I took all the fun that came my 
way, and was the better for it. 

Kate Redmond, who was usually de- 
scribed by the Birdlingtonians as "a 
limb," was greatly interested in the per- 
sonnel of the Adjutant-General's office. 
When I said that the General was young 
and good-looking, she declared at once 
that she was going to the office with me. 
I begged her not to, as I did not consider 
it businesslike; but the more I said, the 
more she insisted. 




Why not wear a necktie ? ' I answered." 



The Tomboy at Work 35 

"You can't go with me," I said. 

"I can go with you," she replied, and, 
sure enough, she did; and she could not 
have picked out a worse day in the whole 
year for her visit. 

It was in the spring, and there was a 
freshet in the river. It was all right when 
I went up in the morning, but later in the 
day the water covered the railway tracks 
and the trains could not run. 

I was writing away at my desk when the 
door of the office opened and Miss Kate 
came smiling in. Instead of looking for 
me, she crossed over to the General, and, 
in her most ingratiating manner, asked if 
he was the Adjutant-General. He arose, 
and, with his best bow, assured her he was, 
and that he was at her service. 

Now, Kate Redmond was a very pretty 
girl, and was as bright as a newly minted 
dollar, and the General was not slow to 
take all this in. 

"I'm sorry to trouble you," said she, 
'but I am looking for my friend Miss Gil- 



36 The Tomboy at Work 

bert. Can you tell me which office she 
is in?" 

As he was about to say that I was in his 
office, and before I could say " Here I am," 
she continued, "I don't know my way 
about the State House, and I dare say that 
I am very stupid, but I must see her on 
important business." 

"Hello, Kate," said I, before the General 
could answer. "Here I am." And, not 
believing that she would have the audacity 
to come to the office without a valid ex- 
cuse, I asked, with no little anxiety: 

"What's the matter? What do you 
want to see me about?" 

She crossed over to my desk, while the 
General regarded her admiringly. Frown- 
ing at me, she said: 

"Don't be a silly. I told you I would 
come, and I came. Isn't he a dream?" 

" From which you'll have a rude awaken- 
ing if you're not careful." For I did not 
relish the idea of mixing business with 
pleasure to this extent. Then, turning to 



The Tomboy at Work 37 

the General, she said, in her most engaging 
manner, seating herself on a chair by my 
desk: 

"I hope you will not mind if I sit here 
and wait for Nell. It is getting late, and 
I don't like to go home alone." 

It was not a minute later than three 
o'clock. 

"I shall be delighted," repHed the Gen- 
eral gallantly, and busied himself with the 
papers on his desk, though I knew that he 
would have liked to continue the conversa- 
tion, and I am sure that Miss Kate would 
have been very pleased if he had done so. 
I tried to go on v/ith my work, but she 
would whisper to me, and I could not pin 
my mind down to business. 

Suddenly she got up and crossed to the 
window by the General's desk. 

"Dear me!" she exclaimed, "it is as I 
feared. The tide seems to be rising. How 
in the world are we going to get home if the 
water is over the tracks." 

**Give yourselves no uneasiness, young 



38 The Tomboy at Work 

ladies," said the General, rising. "I will 
investigate; that is the only way to know 
just how things are." 

"You are so kind," said Kate, looking 
at him demurely. And he left the office. 
Pretty soon he came back and told us that 
the trains were not running, as the tracks 
were under water. I saw visions of a night 
in Trenton, and wanted to telegraph to my 
mother at once not to be alarmed. 

"We must get home," said Kate. "I 
could not possibly stay all night." 

"We can't walk," said I. 

"There's the road, if there was only some 
way of driving down," said the wily Kate. 

"It would give me the greatest pleasure 
to drive you to Birdlington," said the 
General promptly. "If you will wait here, 
I will go home and get my horse and 
wagon and drive you down." 

"You are very kind, but we could not 
allow it," said Kate. 

"It will be much better for us to stay 
here all night. I know some one who will 



The Tomboy at Work 39 

take us in. She is a friend of my mother's. 
We can go to her," said I. 

"You know she has no spare room," 
said Kate, giving me a dig with her elbow. 
I did not take the hint, for I exclaimed, 

"No spare room! Why she has " 

Here Kate gave me another dig, which 
the General did not notice, as he was get- 
ting his hat and gloves. 

"It will be much better for us to go 
home, but I don't want to bother the 
General. We can go to the livery, except 
that I am so afraid of livery horses. They 
are so apt to run away." 

"I must insist upon having the pleasure 
myself," said the General, bowing himself 
out. 

"What's the matter with you?" said 
Kate in a whisper, for the clerks were 
pricking up their ears. "Let him drive us 
down. It will be lots of fun." 

I quite agreed with her on this point, and 
began to get ready for the drive. 

In a very short time, the General re- 



40 The Tomboy at Work 

turned and told us that the carriage was 
at the door. Downstairs we went, and 
climbed in with much laughter, for it was 
a bright, cool day, and we were very young. 
All went well until we arrived at the bridge 
across the creek, and there, to our conster- 
nation, we found that a dam had given 
away and that the bridge was under water. 
*We'll ford the stream," said the Gen- 
eral gaily, touching the horse with the 
whip. But the horse stood still. He 
refused the water. Coaxing and more 
whip were tried, but to no avail. We were 
now thoroughly alarmed, and wished that 
we had stayed in Trenton. The horse 
began to back, and we did not know what 
was going to happen; but the General 
rose to the situation. 

"He can ford the stream all right. 
He's done it often enough in the army, 
but he wants me on his back." 

Buttoning his coat tightly about him 
and rolling his trousers up to his knees, the 
General climbed out over the shafts and 






^•^il' 



^'f '' 



i 




iu://^/^'^ v^i 









The Tomboy at Work 41 

sat upon the horse's back. " Now, Beauty, 
get along with you," and he touched the 
horse's sides with his spurless heels. The 
horse lifted his head, and stepped out into 
the stream with confidence. But neither 
he nor his rider had reckoned with the tide. 
In a moment his legs spread out from 
under him, and we were sailing down the 
stream. Kate screamed, and clung to me. 
The General did not scream, but he clung 
to the horse from whose back he came 
very near being washed off. He was a 
good rider, however, and a man with a cool 
head. Down we went, and I thought that 
our time had come. I had seen chicken- 
coops and bedsteads floating down the 
river at the time of freshets, but I had never 
seen a carriage full of people in a like 
predicament. Kate was so frightened that 
I forgot my own fears in trying to calm her. 
"Let us go back," she urged frantically. 
As though we would not have done so if we 
could! There was only one way that we 
could go, and that was the way the tide 



42 The Tomboy at Work 

took us. The horse floundered and strug- 
gled bravely with the water, while the 
General urged him toward the bank, which 
was so near but yet so far. In the mean- 
time, there was great fear that the water 
would fill the wagon, in which case we 
should have to swim for our lives, if we 
knew how. Alas! I did not, and I regis- 
tered a vow then and there to learn the art 
if my life were spared. The water was up 
to the horse's body, and touched the Gen- 
eral's knees. Our situation was a desper- 
ate one, and if we had not had so cool a 
man in command, the worst might have 
happened. He never for a moment ad- 
mitted that we were in danger, but I knew, 
when I sav7 the colour leave his cheeks, 
that he was thoroughly alarmed. Every- 
thing depended upon the horse. If he 
gave out, we were done for. 

Suddenly there was a swirl in the water. 
Around went the wagon, but instead of our 
being dragged down by it, we were turned 
around, and in the turning the horse's feet 



The Tomboy at Work 43 

got a grip on the submerged bank, and we 
were saved. 

As the horse drew us up out of the 
water, Kate forgot her fears. 

"Wasn't it lovely?" she exclaimed. "I 
never had so much fun." 

"Then, when you screamed, it was for 
joy," I remarked sarcastically. 

"Of course," said she, without wincing; 
and turning to the General, she said: 

"We might have been food for the fishes 
if it had not been for you. General. You 
are a real hero." 

With the modesty of real heroes, he 
denied that he had done anything, but we 
insisted, while he dismounted from the 
horse's back and wrung the water from his 
clothes. We wanted him to come inside 
the carriage, but he said that he was too 
wet, and that he would continue the jour- 
ney on horseback. And so we entered 
Birdlington, where our drenched postilion 
attracted not a little attention. 

The Redmonds' house was nearer than 



44 The Tomboy at Work 

ours, so we stopped there, where the Gen- 
eral got a hot toddy and a change of 
clothes, while Kate and I sipped hot water 
and camphor as a precaution against cold. 

There was no going back to Trenton that 
night, so the General was invited to stay 
over till the next day, an invitation he did 
not seem loath to accept. The news of 
our adventure was soon spread over the 
town, and lost nothing in the spreading. 
Neighbours dropped in to hear particulars, 
and we ended the evening with a dance in 
which the General was a conspicuous figure, 
not only as the hero of the occasion, but 
because of his appearance in the clothes 
of Captain Redmond, who was a much 
smaller man. If he had worn the Captain's 
trousers down from Trenton, there would 
have been no occasion for turning them up. 

There was no one more concerned over 
our adventure than the Redmonds' cook, 
who remarked to Mrs. Redmond that 
"Miss Kate knowed the tide had rose, and 
she oughtn't to have went!" 



CHAPTER IV 

The story of our adventure in the 
freshet, like the more recent rumour of 
Mark Twain's death, was "grossly exag- 
gerated." One story was that we had all 
three mounted the horse and forded the 
stream. Another, that the horse had been 
drowned, and the carriage sunk to the 
bottom, while we had saved our lives 
only by swimming to shore. If we had 
really been thrown into deep water, I 
am afraid I should have shared the fate 
of the carriage. 

An account of the adventure was sent 
to a New York daily by its Trenton 
correspondent, who, being a Birdling- 
ton man, selected the most popular 
of the town stories. My mother and 
Aunt Maria were greatly mortified to 
see not only my name, but those of 
45 



46 The Tomboy at Work 

the rest of the family, in print, below 
what I have since learned to know as 
a "scare head." Here is the account, 
quoted from memory, but quite accurate, 
I believe: 

FLED FROM THE FLOOD 

Gallant Rescue from the Raging River-— 

The Lives of Two Beautiful Young 

Girls Saved by the Handsome 

Adjutant-General of New 

Jersey — Crowds Cheer 

the Hero 

(From Our Special Correspondent) 

Then came the story, which simply told in 
detail what the head -lines accentuated. It 
was no nearer the truth than they were. 
In the first place, we had not fled from the 
flood, but plunged into it. In the second 
place, it was the creek, not the river. And 
in the third place, only one of the girls was 
beautiful. But what did I care? I had 
just as good a time, and I worshipped 



The Tomboy at Work 47 

beauty in others. Kate Redmond was 
always getting into trouble on account of 
her good looks, while I spent my time in 
getting her out of her scrapes, which I 
probably should not have done if I had 
had similar troubles of my own. 

Every young man native to the town, 
and all the young men who came there from 
other towns, surrendered to her attractions. 
There was a good deal of feeling among the 
local young men against the Adjutant- 
General, who, they considered, had been 
given an unfair advantage. There was not 
one of the number who would not have 
done as much and more for one of Kate 
Redmond's smiles. They belittled his 
action, which I must admit he also 
did, and hinted that, if the truth were 
known, it was not much of an adventure 
after all. 

The young man who took the thing most 
to heart was the new public schoolmaster. 
He was rather better-looking than the aver- 
age village lad, and dressed with more heed 



48 The Tomboy at Work 

to fashion than was common in Birdling- 
ton. He had come as a stranger to the town. 
Members of the school committee knew 
him, but they thought it enough to pay his 
salary, and never troubled to invite him 
to their houses. The loss, I am inclined 
to think, was theirs. 

With her quick eye for such things, Kate 
had noticed Warner Barclay the first day 
he appeared in Main Street, and made up 
her mind to meet him at the earliest pos- 
sible moment. Nothing could have been 
easier if she was content to wait a while, 
but she was not. She wanted an uncon- 
ventional meeting, and she got it. It 
seems that the young schoolmaster had 
singled her out from all the other village 
girls, and was as anxious to meet her as 
she was to meet him. He asked one of the 
teachers of the school whether she would 
perform the ceremony of introduction, but 
she had already discovered the good looks 
and amiable disposition of young Barclay, 
and postponed the day when these qual- 



The Tomboy at Work 49 

ities should be observed by another. At 
the post-office, one evening, the young 
man had the pleasure of making way for 
Kate at the delivery window — a courtesy 
that she acknowledged with a somewhat 
haughty inclination of the head, as who 
should say, " Keep your place, young man; 
no 'freshness,* if you please." The youth 
raised his Panama hat, and blushed to the 
roots of his curling hair. 

All this stand-offishness on Kate's part 
was assumed. She was quite conscious 
of the impression she had made, and pro- 
posed to lead up to an acquaintance in her 
own way. Just what she was going to do 
she herself did not know. Fate decided 
for her. 

About a mile and a half out of town, on a 
bluff overlooking the river, lived a retired 
naval officer with his nephews and nieces. 
This family was very popular in Birdling- 
ton society, and the old homestead was 
the objective of most of our walks. If we 
had plenty of time, we went along the 



$0 The Tomboy at Work 

road through the woods and up a lane 
that led from the turnpike to the house; 
but there was a short cut down the rail- 
road. By this way the distance was not 
more than a half or three-quarters of a 
mile, but there were a great many inter- 
secting tracks to cross, and in those days 
there were many more trains plying be- 
tween Camden and Amboy than there are 
to-day. 

It happened that one day Kate was in 
somewhat of a hurry to see her friends on 
the bluff, so she took the short cut down 
the railway. She was very proud of her 
ability to walk on a rail without falling off, 
and was tripping gaily along, with her 
head in the air, when her foot caught in 
the V made by the crossing of two rails. 
It went in with so much force, up to 
the narrow point of the V, that she could 
not pull it out. She unlaced her shoe and 
tried to get the foot out of it, but that plan 
would not work. In the distance, she 
heard the whistle of a train, and she knew 



The Tomboy at Work 51 

that one would be coming around the 
curve before long. She thought of all her 
sins, past, present and future, and won- 
dered whether she would be killed outright, 
or mangled and thrown aside to die in the 
ditch. 

While she was thinking over the situation, 
it occurred to her to look around and see 
if there was any one in sight. There was 
no one in front of her, but, turning back, 
she saw the schoolmaster coming up the 
track. She knew that he would be by her 
side in a moment, so she did not call out. 
When he reached her, she bowed to him 
with a pleasant, "Good morning, Mr. 
Barclay," which both surprised and pleased 
him. 

He stopped, with his hat in his hand, 
and she explained that she was not stand- 
ing on the track because she wanted to, but 
because her foot was held as though in a 
vise. He was very much alarmed, espe- 
cially as the whistling of the engine was 
getting louder, and tried his best to get the 



52 The Tomboy at Work 

foot out; but it would not come. He told 
me afterward that he was never so fright- 
ened in his life, but that Kate was as cool 
as a cucumber, and it was she who sug- 
gested the means of relief. 

"Have you a penknife with you?" she 
asked. 

He felt in his pocket and produced one. 

"Now," she said, "open the sharpest 
blade, and cut the leather as close to the 
sole as possible. Go gently, and don't cut 
my stocking," she added, with a smile, 
"because I have on my best pair." 

Although his hands shook with nervous- 
ness, he ran the blade carefully along the 
edge of the leather, and the foot was re- 
leased. Kate stepped from the track only 
a few moments before the train passed by. 

"You have saved my life," she said 
gaily, "but," pointing to the rails, "I 
have lost my sole." 

After this episode, a formal introduction 
between Kate and the schoolmaster was 
unnecessary. His rescue was considered 




c ^ 
^ % 

- A 



The Tomboy at Work 53 

even more interesting than that of which 
the Adjutant-General was the hero, and 
the town was thrilled with the story. The 
only person who did not seem to be par- 
ticularly excited over the matter was Kate. 
She took it very calmly, to all outward 
appearances, but I fancy she had had a 
pretty anxious quarter of an hour on that 
railroad track, but no one would have sus- 
pected it from her manner. 

The schoolmaster felt that he was at a 
disadvantage because he did not wear the 
aureole of the soldier. He had been too 
young to fight, even as an emergency man, 
and in those days, just after the war, 
soldiers were still the favoured gallants. 
Then, again, the Adjutant-General's ex- 
ploit had been so much more picturesque 
than his. He had merely taken out his 
penknife and cut the sole of a shoe from the 
upper, while the Adjutant-General had 
leaped upon a horse and forded a swollen 
stream. To be sure, the dexterous applica- 
tion of the penknife had saved Kate Red- 



54 The Tomboy at Work 

mend's life, while the fording of the stream 
was merely a matter of accommodation. 

Kate fully realised that the schoolmaster 
had saved her, but, after all, it was so 
unromantic. She did invite young Barclay 
to call upon her and receive the thanks 
of the family, and they were getting on 
famously until the Adjutant-General ap- 
peared upon the scene. The schoolmaster 
was good-looking enough — he had unusu- 
ally regular features and rather curling 
hair — but he was pale, and wore no mus- 
tache. Smooth-shaven faces were not the 
fashion in those days as they are to-day, 
and we girls all agreed that the Adjutant- 
General's long mustache, brilliant colour, 
and dark-brown ringlets were too beautiful 
for words. 

It was not many days after the fording 
of the stream that the Adjutant-General 
drove from Trenton to pay us his respects. 
To me? Oh, no! To Kate Redmond. 

It was late in the afternoon, and I hap- 
pened to be staying a while with Kate on 



The Tomboy at Work 55 

my way home. We were in her room in 
the Mansard roof when we heard the 
"buggy" drive up. We nearly broke our 
necks looking out of the window, and it 
was as much as we could do to keep from 
calling out a welcome. 

"Hurry downstairs, Kate," I exclaimed 
eagerly. 

"Not much," said she, with a toss of the 
head. "It will do him good to wait." 

Then she went to the mirror and ar- 
ranged her hair, tied a fresh bit of lace 
around her throat, and dabbed some pow- 
der on her nose. In the meantime, I was 
stretching my neck out of the window. 
Could I believe my eyes? The General, 
instead of coming up the steps and ringing 
the bell, deliberately crossed the street and 
began pacing up and down the sidewalk. I 
told the news to Kate, and she joined me 
at the window. 

"What's the matter with him? Why 
doesn't he come over?" 

We watched and watched, while the 



56 The Tomboy at Work 

General walked and walked. From being 
amused, Kate began to get angry. Once he 
looked up at the top windows, but we 
sprang back so quickly, he could not pos- 
sibly see us. For at least an hour the Gen- 
eral paraded up and down. Kate was 
furious. She was not used to being treated 
that way. She was so angry that I could 
not help laughing at her, which only made 
matters worse. "I will not look at such 
a simpleton," said she; and, sitting down in 
her rocking-chair, she began to dig the 
wall with her Louis XIV. heels. I can see 
the big hole now that she dug through 
paper and plaster, while I at the lookout 
reported the General's movements. "He's 
coming over!" I exclaimed delightedly, at 
the end of an hour. 

"Well, he can't see me if he is," said 
Kate, with an angry toss of her head — at 
the same time taking furtive glances at the 
mirror to see whether her hair was not too 
much out of crimp, or that the powder 
had not disappeared from her nose. 



The Tomboy at Work 57 

"He won't see me either," I exclaimed, 
for he has got into his ' buggy ' and is driv- 
ing off!" 

"What!" 

Kate could hardly believe her ears. She 
jumped up, and we hung together over the 
window-sill. Sure enough, off he drove, 
with his slouch-hat well down over his eyes, 
and not so much as a glance backward. 

"Well, I never!" gasped Kate. 

"Nor I either," I assented, regardless of 
grammar. 

W^hen Kate and the General met some- 
time later, it took a good deal of argument 
on his part to make his peace. It seems 
that, on the way to her house, he had 
met one of Kate's admirers, who, surmising 
his intention, and being a bit jealous of 
the gallant soldier, had " put up a job " 
on him, as is the way of jealous boys. 

** Going to see Kate Redmond ? " inquired 
the boy. 

"What if I am?" replied the General, 
somewhat nettled. 



58 The Tomboy at Work 

"You won't find her in." 

"Indeed?" 

"No, indeed. I just met her going out 
to Nell Gilbert's, but she said she'd be back 
in a moment, so you might wait." 

"Thank you for the suggestion," said the 
General, not without a touch of irony. 

As the mischievous boy cut across lots 
into the open country, and could not see 
him, the General decided that he would 
wait. Preferring the fresh air, he waited 
outside, with what result we already know. 
He was quite as annoyed as we were. When 
the explanation was made, the General was 
the indignant one. Kate was pleased, but 
it would not have gone well with that boy 
if she had known who he was. The Gen- 
eral's fingers tingled to box his ears, but he 
could not remember his face, as their meet- 
ing had been so short. Kate had her sus- 
picions, and boldly accused one of her 
youngest admirers ; but he looked straight 
into her eyes while he "denied the allega- 
tion and defied the allegator." 



CHAPTER V 

The schoolmaster was very much dis- 
turbed by the General's frequent visits at 
the Redmonds'. One day, much to my 
surprise, he joined me as I was eating my 
noonday sandwich in the State House 
grounds. At first I thoug/ht that he had 
come to see me, and, while I was flattered 
by the attention, I did not like social inter- 
ruptions in business hours. But this was 
the luncheon hour, so I said nothing. I 
soon found out, however, that I was not 
the object of the schoolmaster's visit. He 
wanted to pump me regarding the Adjutant- 
General's feelings toward Kate Redmond, 
but I was not to be pumped. While 
I was used to being the confidante of 
both sides in affairs of the heart, I resented 
being questioned about my employer, for 
Mr. Foster's business being now finished, I 
59 



6o The Tomboy at Work 

was working on the records for the 
Adjutant-General. 

"I do not discuss my employer's per- 
sonal affairs with any one," said I, at the 
end of an appeal. Shaking the crumbs of 
my sandwich on the grass, I blew up the 
paper bag and burst it with a bang that 
made the schoolmaster start, for he was in 
a nervous condition. 

"Hang the Adjutant-General," said the 
schoolmaster. "I don't want to know 
how much he cares for her — how much 
does she care for him ?'* and he poked the 
gravel viciously with his umbrella. 

"That is another matter," I answered; 
for business was not on this side of the 
question. "I'm sure she cares a good deal 
for him." 

The schoolmaster groaned. 

"That is, in her way. She never cares 
very long for any one — any man, I mean. 
She says there's safety in numbers, variety's 
the spice of life, and all such things." 

He groaned again. 



The Tomboy at Work 6i 

"Then you have seen her care for a man 
this much before?" 

"Lots of times. It's her way. She's a 
born flirt." 

"I suppose I might as well throw myself 
in the river and end it all," he said gloomily, 
looking out over the Delaware. I was 
younger than he was, and I took him at his 
word. I argued the question with him, 
and wound up by saying, "That would be 
a very foolish thing to do, for you would 
be declaring your defeat and leaving 
everything to your hated rival." (I had 
read the phrase "hated rival" somewhere, 
and liked the sound of it.) The school- 
master's proper pride came to his rescue. 

"You are quite right," said he, with- 
drawing his eyes from the river. "I shall 
live and fight it out. He need not think 
that, because he has a long mustache and 
can wear shoulder-straps, he can down me. 
A teacher is as good as a soldier any day. 
I may be young, but I'm not going to be 
flung aside for a man who has only a mus- 



62 The Tomboy at Work 

tache and shoulder-straps to his credit." 
The schoolmaster's eye shot fire, and the 
colour mounted to his cheeks. "I wish 
that these were the days of the duel. I'd 
challenge him. I'd call him out " 

"Out where?" 

"Out here, right now." He was getting 
very much excited. "I wouldn't wait for 
seconds and all that rubbish, but I'd draw 
on him at sight " 

"It is not a question of money." He 
did not hear me. He was listening to his 
own voice. 

"Defend yourself, sir," and he thrust his 
tightly rolled umbrella at an imaginary foe. 

An old farmer and his wife, making a 
visit to the State House, came down the 
path at this moment. They looked at the 
fire-eating schoolmaster, and fled. At the 
same moment, the Adjutant -General, who 
had been looking out of his office window, 
appeared upon the scene. 

"Oh, it is you, Mr. Barclay; spearing 
for eels?" said the Adjutant-General, rais- 



The Tomboy at Work 63 

ing his sombrero. "I recognised Miss Gil- 
bert, and feared that some stranger was 
trying to frighten her. You know, all 
sorts of queer people get in here." 

The schoolmaster sheathed his umbrella. 

"Miss Gilbert is fortunate in having so 
gallant a protector," said he, and, raising 
his hat, he walked haughtily up the path. 
I was glad to see him go, for I was just 
young enough to think that there might 
have been bloodshed, though the men 
were unarmed save for the schoolmaster's 
umbrella. 

"Nice "fellow," said the General. "A 
little queer, though, like most school- 
teachers. No snap." 

"No snap!" He would have thought 
that the schoolmaster was not wanting in 
"snap," if he had heard him a few minutes 
before. 

When I reached Birdlington, late that 
afternoon, Kate was at the station to meet 
me. She could hardly wait till I got off 
the train to tell me her news. 



64 The Tomboy at Work 

"I've got lots to tell you. The school- 
master " 

"Hush; wait a moment. You don't 
want the whole town to know." 

"To know what?" 

"That the schoolmaster's in love with 
you and madly jealous of the General." 

"Who told you?" 

"The schoolmaster." 

"Well, upon my " 

" He did not exactly tell me, but he might 
as well have told me. He wanted to 
commit suicide, kill the General " 

"Oh, lovely! Tell me everything." 

We were now climbing the broad stairs 
from the station that led to the main 
street. 

* * Isn't that enough ? What more do you 
want? Have you seen him?" 

"I should say so. He came straight to 
the house from Trenton, and said I would 
have to choose between him and the Gen- 
eral. I told him I had chosen. He nearly 
fainted. 'Which is it?' he demanded. 



The Tomboy at Work 6$ 

*That is my affair,' I replied. 'I'm not 
giving myself away.'" 

"Have you really chosen?" I asked. 

"Of course I have." 

"Which?" 

"That's telling." 

For once, Kate did not take me into her 
confidence. I knew, however, that she 
was only trying to tease me, or that she 
had not really made up her mind. 

"The schoolmaster's all very well," said 
she, "but I'm not going to put up with his 
melancholy-Dane manner. I'm no Ophelia. 
As though I was going to stop having fun 
to please any one man ! No, no ! If Master 
Barclay is not careful, I will turn my back 
on him, and then see what he will do." 

"I know what he will do, well enough. 
i5e as much as told me." 

"Did he?" (joyfully). "What did he 
say?" 

" He as much as said that he would jump 
into the river." 

"I guess he'd jump out again in a hurr/. 



66 The Tomboy at Work 

That's all bluff. I may be only sixteen 
years old, but / know men.'* 

I was filled with awe at her knowledge 
of the world. We were at the Redmonds' 
gate by this time, and looking up the road 
saw a solitary horseman in the distance. 
As he cantered up, we recognised the Gen- 
eral. Kate blushed with pleasure. 

Bending low over his saddle, the General 
saluted us with a flourish of his hat. His 
horse, touched with the spurs, pranced and 
plunged about, while the General sat as 
calm and erect as Buffalo Bill. Finally, 
he drew up by the curb and stated his 
errand. On the next evening there was to 
be grand opera at the Trenton opera house. 
A special train was to run up from Birdling- 
ton, and the General begged for the pleas- 
ure of escorting Miss Kate, She had fully 
made up her mind to go. In fact, quite a 
party of us were going; but she kept the 
General in a state of doubt, at last con- 
senting that he might be one of the party. 

Couldn't he drive her up in his buggy? 




I may be only sixteen years old, but / knoTi) men. 



The Tomboy at Work 67 

No, he couldn't. It was with the party 
or nothing. Anything was preferable to 
nothing. So he promised to be on hand 
for the train; and he was. 

Excitement ran high over this opera 
party. With us, it was what is known as a 
"Jersey treat" — we paid each for our own 
ticket.. Not a great expense, for the best 
seats were only a dollar and a half. The 
Redmonds had often been to the opera in 
New York, and they knew all about it. I 
had never been. Up to that time, opera 
and theatre were a sealed book to me, as 
far as actual experience went. I had read 
much about them in books and newspapers, 
but up to that time an "old folks" con- 
cert or the tuneful " bell-ringers " were the 
beginning and the end of my acquaintance 
with the stage. 

The Redmonds, our arbiters of fashion, 
said that I must have an opera bonnet. 
Must I, indeed! Where was I going to get 
a bonnet of any sort, and on such short 
notice. And if I did get one, what was I 



68 The Tomboy at Work 

going to do with it? I had never worn a 
bonnet and never wanted to, but I bowed 
to the inevitable. Lou Redmond, who 
was as good as a milHner, indeed — better 
than our local talent — said she would 
make me one if I would furnish the 
materials. She went with me to buy 
them. First, we bought a "frame," a 
thing of wire and gauze; and then the 
trimming. I insisted upon black as 
being inconspicuous, so we got a lot of 
black tulle. It looked rather funereal 
when finished, but I objected to feathers 
or flowers as being too gay and not 
suited to my plain clothes. We com- 
promised on some simple gilt ornaments. 
A gilt leaf was sewn to the top of the bon- 
net, and the long strings of tulle were 
fastened together well below the chin with 
a cluster of gilt leaves ; small grape-leaves 
they must have been, for I remember 
the curling tendrils. Every one declared 
the bonnet, when completed, to be a work 
of art. I'm sure it was, though my judg- 



The Tomboy at Work 69 

ment in the matter was not worth much. 
This was its shape: 




The point came in front and the back 
fitted over the "waterfall." Unfortu- 
nately for the fitting, I did not wear a 
"waterfall." My hair was held back by 
a "round comb" and confined in a "net." 
The consequence was that the bonnet 
had no purchase, and the point was as 
likely to be on a line with my ear as on a 
line with my nose. I suffered tortures 
with that bonnet, notwithstanding the 
efforts of every one on the special train 
to kfeep it straight. At last we got to the 
opera house and to our seats, which were 
in the front row. 

The opera was "The Barber of Seville," 
and the lamented Parepa-Rosa was the 
prima donna. The names of the singers 
who supported her were well known in 
those days, but only the older generation 



70 The Tomboy at Work 

of music lovers will recall them to-day. 
Ferranti was the baritone, Testa the 
tenor, Carl Rosa the conductor, and 
George Colby the orchestra. Colby pre- 
sided at a piano, and Rosa "conducted" 
him, baton in hand. It was primitive 
enough as to surroundings, but I wish 
that I could as much enjoy a performance 
at the Metropolitan Opera House to-day. 
Parepa-Rosa sang Zerlina in a crinoline, 
looped up over a "balmoral skirt" as was 
the fashion of the day; the others wore the 
costumes of the period represented. In 
the singing lesson, Parepa-Rosa sang 
"Katie's Lesson," giving as an encore 
"Five o'clock in the Morning" — a ballad 
she had made famous — ^by special request. 
Mme. Parepa-Rosa was a woman of more 
than ample proportions, but from that 
large throat and deep chest issued a voice 
of unusual sweetness and birdlike quality. 
Large as she was, she was young and 
girHsh, and she sang the ballad with 
delightful archness. How few know that 




" Mme. Parepa-Rosa was a woman of more than ample 
proportions, but from that large throat issued a voice of 
unusual sweetness and birdlike quality." 



The Tomboy at Work 71 

old song to-day! But every one knew it 
then, and loved it as they loved the 
singer. 

I enjoyed the performance tremendously, 
and applauded with might and main — 
much to the detriment of my opera 
bonnet. I applauded it over my eyes 
once, down my back another time, and, 
finally, at the end of the ballad, I was 
so carried away with enthusiasm that it 
fell upon the floor, where I pounded my 
heels into it in an ecstasy of delight. At 
the end of the opera it was little more 
than a rag. The tulle was in shreds, 
while the grape leaves were beaten flat. 
I picked up the leaves from the floor and 
rolled them up with my programme, as 
souvenirs of a great night. 

"You'll have to go home bare-headed," 
said Kate, regarding with dismay the 
roll of tulle on the floor. 

"I'd go home barefooted if I could hear 
it all over again," was my infatuated reply. 

Sitting in the balcony, where he had a 



72 The Tomboy at Work 

full view of Kate and the General, was 
the schoolmaster. He never took his 
eyes off them, but Kate, who must have 
seen him, paid no attention. As we left 
the opera house, he stood glaring in the 
lobby. At the door, Kate turned to the 
General and thanked him for his escort. 

"But I am going back to Birdlington 
with you," he replied, thinking that she 
misunderstood his intention. 

"I could not permit it. It would be 
too much. There are so many of us that 
it is not at all necessary.'* And, taking 
the arm of the schoolmaster, whose face 
brightened as the General's darkened, she 
said good-night, and trotted off on her 
French heels, while we followed. 

It was a great night. I shall never 
forget it. 



\^>\^M 




^4i>.,,,...^^ c^^to^ ^-^l-vU. 



" I enjoyed the performance tremendously, and applauded 
with might and main — much to the detriment of my opera 
bonnet." 



CHAPTER VI 

There were not many excitements in 
Birdlington, but still there were some 
delightful people living there — an unusual 
number, considering the size of the town. 
In years gone by, it had been a fashion- 
able watering-place, some man having 
discovered a spring of strong medicinal 
properties in the town. And then there 
was always the aureole of the Bonapartes 
about the place, for King Joseph, the 
brother of the great Emperor Napoleon, 
had chosen it for his home. The Bona- 
partes were long before my day, but my 
mother and Aunt Maria remembered them 
well. After Joseph left the place, his 
nephew. Prince Lucien Murat, a son of 
the marshal, continued to make it his 
home. The house that he lived in is still 
standing, as are several other houses built 
73 



74 The Tomboy at Work 

by this little band of French exiles. They 
are of the French style of architecture, 
and look as if they might have been 
transplanted from the old quarters of 
Versailles. 

Prince Murat had married an American 
woman, a Miss Fraser, of one of the Caro- 
linas. She may have had money when 
he married her, but it did not take him 
long to spend it. Madame Murat, as she 
was called, set up a school, and the better 
class of Birdlington girls attended it. 
Of course, the Prince did nothing to help 
the family fortunes. Was he not a 
Prince, even though he was not of ancient 
lineage? He gambled, assisted at cock- 
fights, did a little shooting, and all this 
kept him busy. I have heard Aunt Maria, 
who knew the Murat family well, tell an 
amusing anecdote of the Prince's unprac- 
tical ideas — that is, it is amusing to us 
now, but it was certainly not amusing to 
Mme. Murat at the time. It seems that 
the mainstay of the little Murats was the 



The Tomboy at Work 75 

milk of a fine cow that Mme. Murat had 
bought out of her frugal means. One 
day, the Prince came home from the 
village tavern, where he spent the most 
of his time, and said to his wife, with great 
satisfaction, 

"My dear, I have made such a bar- 
gain!" 

"What is it?" inquired that good lady, 
catching some of his enthusiasm. 

"I have given our cow for a fine setter 
dog. What do you think of that?" 

The tears which she was unable to 
control proved, without words, what she 
thought of the bargain. The Prince tried 
to console her by promising to keep the 
family provided with game, which, after 
all, he argued, was better for the children 
than milk. 

Birdlington was full of anecdotes of the 
Bonapartes and Murats in my early days. 
All that was left of the household of the 
ex-King of Spain was his barber and an 
old soldier, by the name of Rabeau, who 



76 The Tomboy at Work 

had fought at Waterloo. He died soon 
after we came to live at the old place, but 
the barber lived many years longer. He 
kept a candy and toy and tobacco store 
on the sidewalk, in front of which he spent 
most of his time reading French news- 
papers many weeks old. He sat in an 
old wooden chair, tilted back on its 
hind legs, with his newspaper held close 
to his eyes. All day long he sat that way, 
reading news of the home across the seas. 
His dress was very much like that of the 
old soldiers one sees at Napoleon's tomb. 
Yet he was not a soldier, but only the 
barber of an ex-king. 

Louis Napoleon was once a visitor at 
Birdlington, and he took back to France 
with him one of the villagers who had 
taught him how to swim and was teaching 
the same accomplishment to the boys 
and girls of my generation. This man, 
whom I will call Long John, for convenience, 
was a good deal of a character. He had 
known my maternal grandfather, who, I 



The Tomboy at Work 77 

imagine, was a man of a good deal of 
"temperament." **The old Major was a 
devil," said he, and, turning to Dixey, 
"you're his very spit and image." 

I enjoyed talking to Long John about 
his European experiences. He went as a 
sort of body-servant to Louis Napoleon, 
who was vastly entertained by his original 
observations. One day, in London, the 
Emperor-to-be asked him what he would 
most like to see. 

"Well, Prince," said Long John, rubbing 
his head reflectively, "I think I'd Hke to 
see a dow'ger most of all. I've heard 
such a lot about dow'gers, I'd like to tell 
the folks at home what they're like." 

"Very well, John," said the Prince, 
"you shall see a dowager, and more than 
one. You stand behind my chair at 
dinner to-night, and I'll let you pass 
the soup to one of the greatest dowagers 
in all England." 

" By crackie," said Long John, in relating 
the anecdote, "I thought I'd drop the 



78 The Tomboy at Work 

soup-plate when I clapped my eye on that 
dow'ger. Why, she wam't nothin* to look 
at, at all; a skinny old thing, all covered 
with diments. 'Well, Prince,' said I, 
when I got him alone, 'I don't want 
none of your dow'gers, if that's what 
they're Hke. Give me a Jersey girl every 
time." 

When Louis Napoleon executed his 
famous coup d'etat, the Murats plucked 
up courage and decided to join him in 
France and share in his good fortune. 
He had not asked them to come, but they 
felt sure that pride of family would 
compel him to set them on their feet. 
It was one thing to decide to go, and 
another thing to go. They had not the 
price of a single ticket among them, but 
they appealed to the people of Birdling- 
ton, from whom the Prince, by his rose- 
coloured statements, succeeded in "bor- 
rowing" several hundred dollars. 

I have heard my . mother and Aunt 
Maria tell graphic tales of their theatrical 



The Tomboy at Work 79 

departure from Birdlington. The Prince 
and Mme. Murat were decked out in new- 
clothes, bought for the occasion, while 
the children wore garments fashioned 
by the friendly neighbours out of old 
clothes, liveries, and what not, found 
in the closets of the Murat house. 

At the time of the Murats' departure 
there was a sale of their effects. Among 
the rubbish was an old scrap-book made 
by Mme. Murat. It consisted of pictures 
from illustrated papers, an engraving or 
two, fugitive poems, some pasted in, 
others copied out in the owner's fine 
hand-writing, the fashion of the day in 
feminine penmanship. Intrinsically, it was 
not Worth two cents, but, sentimentally, it 
was worth a few shillings to a young 
lady who had been a pupil of Mme. Murat 's. 
She was very anxious to secure the scrap- 
book, so she asked the village doctor if 
he would bid on it for her. This he 
agreed to do. Then, to make assurance 
doubly sure, she went to the clergyman 



86 The Tomboy at Work 

and asked him also to bid on it. This 
he agreed to do. The scrap-book was 
held up by the auctioneer, who said that 
he had been informed that a certain young 
lady was very desirous of possessing it, but 
that he could show no favours. It would 
be knocked down to the highest bidder. 
Most of the lookers-on shrugged their 
shoulders and turned away until the next 
lot should be offered. The only bidders 
were the doctor and the clergyman, neither 
of whom knew who the other was bidding 
for. The young lady did not attend the 
sale. The bidding began at five cents, 
and jumped to "two bits" (two shillings), 
then up to a dollar. The doctor was 
determined. The clergyman was not one 
of those to put his hand to the plow and 
look back; but, when the doctor finally said 
"five dollars," the clergyman refused to 
add another penny, for he thought it 
wrong to spend so much money for a mere 
scrap-book, when a barrel of sermons 
might be had for less. So the treasure 



The Tomboy at Work 8i 

was knocked down to the doctor, who bore 
it to the young lady in triumph. 

"I had a hard fight for it," said he. 
*' There was only one other bidder, our 
good rector, who seemed set on getting it. 
If it had not been for him I could have 
had it for ten cents." 

It was many years later before the young 
lady told this story on herself. She was 
afraid of being called a fool at the time, 
but it was too good a story to keep forever. 
When she was old enough to see the 
humour of the situation, she told it. 
I may add, by the way, that it cooled her 
ardour for auction sales. Their red flags 
were the reminder of a painful incident. 

It is no uncommon thing to hear of a 
woman bidding against herself at an 
auction, but I never before heard of 
one who set two men bidding against 
each other in her behalf. 

I do not know why I should have intro- 
duced these pages about the Bonapartes 
and Murats, except that the subject is so 



82 The Tomboy at Work 

closely associated with my Birdlington 
days. It really came in apropos of 
society in Birdlington in my youth. 
There were no kings in exile there then, 
but there were a great many interesting 
and cultivated people. There was, among 
others, an artist who had studied in Italy, 
and had built an Italian villa of wood 
on a bluff overlooking the river. He was 
a widower with two charming daughters, 
both of whom inherited much of his talent. 
One, however, took more kindly to music; 
the other followed in her father's footsteps, 
and has made a reputation on both sides 
of the ocean. The drawing-room of the 
Waugh villa was embellished with a 
number of statues standing in niches. 
These statues, while admired by the 
friends of the artist, were disapproved of 
by some of the villagers as being nude. 
No one frowned upon them more severely 
than the village charwoman. One day, 
after a house-cleaning, when the family 
entered the drawing-room, they found all 



The Tomboy at Work 83 

the statues standing in their niches draped 
in the cast-off clothes of the family. 
The clothing was put on regardless of sex. 
Powers's Greek Slave wore a frock-coat; 
an Apollo Belvedere was draped in a 
"balmoral" skirt; a Cvipid and Psyche 
had a Scotch plaid shawl pinned over 
them. The effect was weird in the ex- 
treme. The statues looked like so many 
scare-crows. Mr. Waugh sent for the 
charwoman and pretended to be very 
angry. 

"Did you cover up my beautiful statues 
with those old clothes?" he asked severely. 
"Yes, sir, I did, and I'll do it agin. 
Statoos, you call 'em. I call 'em low- 
down images. You'll never ketch me 
workin' in the room with them unless 
they're kivered. I'm a decent woman, I 
am, and I don't hold with any such 
indecency." 

"Don't you know that those are copies 
of classic statues among the most beautiful 
that were ever made?" said the artist. 



84 The Tomboy at Work 

* ' Beautif td ? ' ' with scom. ' * That shows 
what kind of a man you are. You oughter 
be ashamed, and you with young datters — 
a nice way to bring them up ! " 

"Don't you know that the galleries of 
Europe are filled with statues, and that 
people from all over the world go to see 
them?" 

"Yurrupl^-o* course! Them savages 
don't know no better." And gathering 
up her skirts, she swept out of the room 
without having once turned her eyes upon 
the "statoos." 

Mrs. Julia Ward Howe had a married 
sister living in Birdlington, to whom she 
made occasional visits. I remember that, 
on one of these visits, she was asked to read 
an essay before a select company of 
Birdlingtonians. She selected a subject 
that would have given the Concord 
School of Philosophy food for thought. It 
was some current Boston "ism" — I don't 
remember just what, but I do remember its 
effect upon her audience. The reading 



The Tomboy at Work 85 

was in the early afternoon, and the ladies 
brought their sewing. At first they tried 
to understand, but they soon gave that up 
as an impossibility. When Mrs. Howe 
gave a decided emphasis to any line or 
word, they looked up from their needles 
and nodded their heads approvingly. 
The old lady who kept the dames' school 
slept soundly until some emphasised line 
aroused her, and then, to show that she 
had been listening, and that she realised 
that, as a school-teacher, she should be a 
leader among the women, she would 
exclaim, "How true!" Once she said 
"How true" to a proposition that Mrs. 
Howe was proving to be false, but, as she 
dropped off to sleep again immediately 
after her remark, the essayist's look of 
astonishment was lost on her. 

The senior physician of the village and 
the rector were the only men present, 
and, having the dignity of their sex to 
uphold, they looked very wise. The 
doctor stroked his beard, pressed the 



86 The Tomboy at Work 

handle of his cane against his smooth- 
shaven upper lip, and at least looked as 
though he understood it all. The rector 
had a far-away look in his eye, but he was 
on the alert for unorthodox doctrines. 
When they were expounded, he knitted his 
brows and toyed with the gold cross that 
he wore on his watch-ribbon; but he said 
nothing. Perhaps it was as well. 

In the evening, there was an entertain- 
ment in honour of Mrs. Howe. The 
chief warden of the church, who was also 
the basso profundo of the choir, sang 
"Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep" 
with effect so realistic that Kate Red- 
mond asked one of her admirers to bring 
her a life-preserver. A young divinity 
student sang "Jesus, Lover of, My Soul" 
to the tune of "When the Swallows 
Homeward Fly"; a young lady from the 
neighbouring village of Crosswicks played 
a piano-forte solo in which she crossed her 
hands with unusual effect. Indeed, it 
seemed to me that most of the right-hand 



SffFfL 



^^ 




^ 




crossed her hands with unusual effect." 



The Tomboy at Work 87 

notes were played by the left hand, and 
most of those to the left were played by 
the right hand. She certainly was ambi- 
dextrous, and, when I remarked upon it, 
she said that, as a small child, she sat 
with her hands crossed, and thereby 
gained facility. The piece was called 
"Monastery Bells," if I remember rightly, 
and was a great parlour favourite in those 
days. I think that it was the cross- 
hands part that made it so popular. It 
looked a difficult thing to do, but I dare 
say that it was easy enough if you only 
knew the trick. 

The evening ended with charades. We 
asked Mrs. Howe, as the guest of honour, 
to choose the word. She suggested "Tran- 
scendental." Nothing could have been 
easier. "Trance" was the first syllable, 
and Kate Redmond was chosen for the 
part of the unconscious lady, which she 
came near spoiling by an imitation snore. 
"Send" was the next syllable, and "Den- 
tal" the last. That was easy enough. 



88 The Tomboy at Work 

Dixey was the victim of toothache, while 
the divinity student acted the part of 
dentist. There was the word, sure enough, 
but how many in that audience knew its 
meaning ? 

You will see, by this chapter, that we 
were not without our social excitements in 
Birdlington. Kate Redmond called them 
tame; but then, the Redmonds had spent 
part of a winter in New York, and they 
were expected to be critical. 



CHAPTER VII 

I WAS in the office at Trenton for a year, 
and then the work that I had set out to do 
was done. I could not be idle. I could 
not afford to be, for one thing, and I did 
not enjoy having nothing to do, for 
another. Dixey, being a newspaper man, 
and having a wide acquaintance among 
prominent men in the State, was appealed 
to to find me a new position. He had 
about made up his mind by this time that 
I "meant business," so he agreed to do 
what he could for me. He could not 
think of anything, however; but I could. 

At first, I thought that I would write 
poetry or cane chairs — I was not very 
particular as to which, nor had I any 
aptitude for either profession. The way 
I came to think of these two things, 
seemingly so far apart, was this: 
89 



9© The Tomboy at Work 

While he was reporting the doings of 
the State legislature at Trenton, Dixey 
discovered a poet. She was a poor 
woman, who caned chairs for a living in the 
intervals of housework. Dixey, who was 
something of a poet himself, found that 
the woman possessed the real fire. He 
interested himself in her, published a 
volume of her poems, and sold them by 
subscription, thereby making more money 
for her in the space of a few short weeks 
than she had ever seen in all the years of 
her life. This seemed to me an easy way 
of earning a living, and so I wrote some 
verses in imitation of "Clementine's." 
With no little pride, I showed them to 
Dixey, expecting that he would say at 
once that he would get them published 
for me and make me a tidy sum of money. 
I handed him the verses one Sunday — he 
always spent his Sundays at home — ^but I 
did not tell him who had written them. I 
wanted to get his unprejudiced praise 
before I confessed. He began to read. 



The Tomboy at Work 91 

"Whoever wrote this stuff," said he, 
"is either a knave or a fool. They are a 
base imitation of 'Clementine,* and they 
are more base than imitation." 

"The person who wrote those verses," 
said I, in a voice filled with indignation, 
"is neither a knave nor a fool. They 
were written by a particular friend of 
mine, and I would thank you to give 
them back to me." 

"Your particular friend should be more 
particular the next time she — no one but 
a she could write such twaddle — ventures 
into verse." And he returned the manu- 
script, which had been copied out by 
another hand. 

That experience put a damper on my 
poetic aspirations for the time, at any 
rate; certainly upon any thought of 
poetry as a bread-winner. I decided that 
it might be more in my line to cane chairs, 
but that was less to my taste. So two 
possible roads to fortune were closed. 

I cast about me, and decided that I 



92 The Tomboy at Work 

should like to go into the United States 
Mint, in Philadelphia. The pay was the 
same that I had been getting, and the 
hours were easy. There were not many 
things that a woman could do at that 
time, and mint positions were regarded as 
great prizes. 

It seemed as though I were bound to get 
what I wanted in those days. The mint 
position was obtained, and I got a pass 
over the railroad to Philadelphia. Passes 
were easy to get. The head of the family 
of any one connected in the remotest 
with the railroad merely had to go up 
to the ticket office and ask for them. I 
have seen Kate Redmond bring ten girls 
at a time from a neighbouring town, by 
saying to the ticket seller, "Ten passes to 
Birdlington, please," and they were imme- 
diately handed out without a word of 
protest. Times have changed since those 
happy days. 

For a month or more I went up and 
down by the railroad, and all was well 



The Tomboy at Work 93 

iintil the unexpected happened. One Sun- 
day, when Dixey was at home, he made the 
suggestion that the family move to Newark 
so that my mother could have the benefit 
of his full salary — ten dollars per week. 
He could live at home. Her pension 
would about pay the rent, and we should 
all be together — that is, if I could get 
something to do in Newark, which I 
believed that I could when the time should 
come. We talked the matter over care- 
fully, and made the margin of the religious 
weekly to which my mother subscribed 
black with figures. Dixey proved — at 
least, to his and our satisfaction — that ten 
dollars a week in Newark would be equal 
to twenty dollars in Birdlington. In his 
own home, he would be inspired to work, 
and could do much more than in a boarding- 
house. It was a pleasing argument, and 
we fell in with it. 

My mother was eager to go for some 
reasons, yet doubtful on other accounts. 
She would have Dixey at home, and then 



94 The Tomboy at Work 

the schools in Newark offered opportunities 
for the younger children that were not 
to be had in Birdlington. In many 
respects, the country was a better place 
for the children; but then, again, she felt 
that she was standing in Aunt Maria's 
light. If we did not live at Fair View, 
she could rent it for a good price, and it 
was her only source of revenue. Aunt 
Maria was generous and the most loyal of 
sisters. Blood to her was not only thicker 
than water; it wa^ thicker than molasses. 
In fact, it was the thickest thing in the 
world, and to be her sister, or her niece, or 
her nephew was a bond that nothing 
could break. She argued against the 
Newark move, but Dixey carried the day. 
After he had gained my mother's con- 
sent, he confessed that he had been looking 
at a house with an eye to business. He 
said that it was in the suburbs of Newark, 
that there was a bit of ground around it, 
and that it was quite new — in fact, it was 
not finished yet, but if we wotild take it 



The Tomboy at Work 95 

in its unfinished state the rent would be 
much less than in other circumstances. 

"How unfinished is it?" asked Aunt 
Maria. 

"Well, let me see," said Dixey. "The 
top floor is not plastered, and the cellar 
isn't dug. But that's nothing. We can 
easily get a mason to plaster it, and I can 
dig the cellar in the evenings when I come 
home from the office." 

My mother gasped in amazement. Aunt 
Maria, to whom Dixey was as the apple of 
her eye, arose from her chair almost too 
astonished to speak. 

"You dig a cellar! It would be digging 
your grave. Not while your mother and 
I are alive will you do any such foolish 
thing as that." 

My mother was equally determined; so 
the unfinished house was discarded, to 
Dixey 's disappointment, for I think he 
was rather looking forward to that stren- 
uous evening work. 

It was decided that the family should 



96 The Tomboy at Work 

go to Newark, and Dixey was authorised to 
look out for a house with a cellar already 
dug and rooms plastered. In the mean- 
time, I continued going up and down to 
my work in Philadelphia. I was then 
about sixteen years of age, and was 
rather an independent young person — 
quite the most independent and quite the 
youngest in the Mint. 

There were various departments in the 
Mint, and I was assigned to the one in 
which the gold coins were weighed. 
Twenty or thirty women were employed 
in this department, mostly widows or 
orphans of soldiers who had fought in the 
war; and there were some who had been 
appointed because of a political pull. 
It seemed to me that there were a good 
many old people, but that may have been 
because I was so young that I misjudged 
their years. They were a timid lot, 
nervous and anxious lest they should 
lose their places. On pay day, the em- 
ployees signed their names in a big book 



The Tomboy at Work 97 

in the presence of the superintendent. 
A number of the women who could write 
perfectly well were so nervous, and their 
hands shook so from excitement over what 
they regarded as a ceremony, that they 
were obliged to make their mark. I 
astonished them all by signing my name in 
a big, bold hand, much bigger and bolder 
than my wont, just to show them that I 
was not nervous. I would also have a few 
words of conversation with the superin- 
tendent during the performance. I could 
see the women's admiration of my courage. 
They all stood in awe of the head of our 
department, a lady who had been in the 
Mint for seventeen years, and who drew a 
salary double that of any one of us who 
merely weighed gold. I respected her, 
but I did not fear her, and talked with her 
as I would with any other woman I might 
know. I found her most amiable, and I 
think she rather liked the way I treated 
her, though it must have surprised her 
at first, it was so unusual. 



98 The Tomboy at Work 

The work of weighing gold was not very- 
arduous, nor was it very interesting. We 
sat in high chairs at long tables, with a pair 
of nicely adjusted scales in front of each 
weigher. We laid an unstamped coin on 
the scale, and, if it was too light, tossed it 
into a basket on one side, and, if it was too 
heavy, we rubbed it gently with a file. 
This filing made a lot of gold dust, which 
was very precious. There had been a 
good deal of pilfering of this gold dust 
before I came into the Mint, and many 
precautions were now taken to prevent it. 
One of the ways of stealing the dust had 
been to grease the hair and rub the dust 
off the hands into it, A good deal could 
be carried away in this manner. In my 
time greased hair was forbidden, and the 
hands had to be washed in basins with 
sieve attachments before we left the Mint. 

When gold was scarce, we were set at 
making little bags of canton flannel to 
hold it when it began to come in again. 
I disliked sewing very much, even the easy 



The Tomboy at Work 99 

task of making bags. The women thought 
me very entertaining, and they agreed to 
sew my bags if I would amuse them. Thi^ 
I was only too pleased to do, for they were 
easily amused. I had no voice to speak 
of, but I was good at tunes, and had a 
large repertoire which I could draw upon 
for singing, whistling, or playing on my 
"round comb " by putting a piece of soft 
paper over the keys and blowing. Then, 
I was quite accomplished with the jews- 
harp, an instrument of torture one seldom 
sees nowadays. 

Strange to say, the women liked my 
singing the best. I suppose that it was 
because they got the words . as well as the 
music. The most popular song in my 
repertoire was one to which I attached 
the name of each woman in turn. By so 
doing, I would often sing as many as 
twenty verses, to the never-failing delight 
of my auditors. For instance, if one of 
the women was named Lucy, I would 
sing: 



tofC. 



icx) The Tomboy at Work 

"Oh, Sister Lucy, and don't you want to go, 
And leave this world of trouble and sorrow here 
below ? 

"If you've any trouble on your mind, 
If you've any trouble on your mind. 
Just ask the Lord what you must do, 
If you've any trouble on your mind." 

Then in as impressive a voice as I could 
assume : 

"Bow down, kneel down, 
When you've any trouble on your mind." 

This was all of the song, as far as I know. 
I think my brother Sandy picked it up from 
the negroes in the South during the war. 
I had never heard it before, and I have 
never heard it since. Small loss, I hear 
you say. 



CHAPTER VIII 

The family had moved to Newark, and, 
after much debate, it was decided that I 
should board in Philadelphia until such 
time as some work could be found for me 
in the former city. I hated to part from 
my family, but the idea of boarding alone 
in Philadelphia was not without its ex- 
citement. A house was chosen on Walnut 
Street, where a friend of my mother's 
boarded. It was within easy walking- 
distance of the Mint, and I was allowed to 
go home to luncheon, a privilege not 
generally extended. I found that I could 
get it only by special permission of the 
superintendent, so I went to him without 
delay and stated the case. 

"Mr. Snowdon," said I, "cold luncheons 
do not agree with me." 

"Really?" 

lOI 



I02 The Tomboy at Work 

"No, sir, they do not. My boarding- 
house is at Tenth and Walnut, and I can 
get a comfortable hot luncheon there if 
you will allow me." 

"I do not wish to stand between you 
and a hot luncheon, so I think I had 
better let you go; but you must not take 
more than an hour. If you do, I shall 
have to withdraw the permission." 

"Thank you very much; I will be back 
well within the hour." And I was. 

I paid five dollars a week for my room 
and board. The room was small, but 
it was on the street and had a big window, 
and the food was bountiful and good. I 
had a great many friends in Philadelphia, 
so that time did not hang heavy on my 
hands. The artist who had lived in 
Birdlington was now living with his two 
daughters in West Philadelphia, and the 
Redmond girls were constantly at their 
house. We had jolly times there. I shall 
not forget a party that they once gave. 
The Redmonds came down for it, and 



The Tomboy at Work 103 

Kate Redmond, with her usual inventive- 
ness, dressed up one of the artist's lay 
figures in women's clothes and set it up in 
the men's dressing-room. It was funny 
enough to hear the men, as they entered 
and discovered what they naturally sup- 
posed was a lady standing near the dressing- 
table. They would start back, one foot 
on the threshold, with many apologies for 
the intrusion. A smothered giggle from 
down the hall, where Kate Redmond and 
I were posted to see the fun, reassured 
them. 

We heard a great shout from the room 
later in the evening, and learned from one 
of the men that, when he saw another man 
coming up the hall, he put his arm around 
the figure and bent its head over on his 
shoulder. The other man was covered 
with confusion. 

"Don't mention it, old chap," said the 
joker; "we don't mind in the least." And 
then he turned the lay figure, with its 
staring eyes and painted cheeks, around to 



104 The Tomboy at Work 

the light. It was then that the shouts of 
laughter came down the hall. 

"I dare you to carry it downstairs and 
dance with it in the drawing-room," said 
Kate Redmond. The young man, not to 
be "stumped," took the thing in his 
arms and waltzed quite around the room 
with it before she — or shall I say it ? — was 
discovered. He was very rude to it, too, 
and bumped it against people and chairs 
in his mad whirl. 

"Who is that extraordinary woman?" 
inquired one of the older ladies. "She 
must have been drinking, to waltz in that 
mad way." 

"She is only intoxicated with the 
music," said Kate Redmond. "She is a 
charming girl; let me introduce her." 
And, seizing the figure as it whirled by, she 
dragged it up to the inquiring lady. The 
lady was amiable enough to enter into the 
joke. 

It was while I was boarding in Phila- 
delphia that Fanny Kemble came there 



The Tomboy at Work 105 

to read. The Quaker City was her social 
stronghold. She had married Pierce But- 
ler, a member of one of the F. F. P.'s, and, 
though his people did not altogether ap- 
prove of his marriage to an actress, 
particularly one as aggressive as Fanny 
Kemble, they received her as one of the 
family, though with none too great cor- 
diality. Her readings, however, were great 
social events. I determined to go, though 
a ticket cost half a week's earnings. 
Every one I knew was going, and I felt it 
a social as well as an intellectual duty to 
attend the reading. I had to economise 
for a while, but I am glad that I went. 
What was five dollars to pay for such a 
treat, and the memory of it, which is 
ineffaceable? There were no reserved 
seats, so people sent their servants to 
keep places for them. Mrs, Gillespie 
describes the incident with graphic and 
humorous pen in her delightful volume of 
reminiscences. The Susan for whom she 
kept a seat was my mother's dearest 



io6 The Tomboy at Work 

friend. I knew more people at that 
public performance than I should know at 
an afternoon tea to-day. 

"The Merry Wives of Windsor" was the 
play chosen by Mrs. Kemble for the reading. 
I can see and hear it all now. She was 
then past middle life ; a large woman with a 
rather severe face, not in the least sug- 
gestive of Sully's charming portrait painted 
in her early youth. She wore a simple 
gown of silk and lace, expanded by a 
crinoline of huge proportions. As I re- 
member the reading, it was wonderful. 
It was like an "all-star" performance, 
or what such a performance should be 
but never is. Every part was read to 
perfection, from that of the gruff, rotund 
Falstaff to that of the gentle Anne Page. 
Since that eventful day, I have heard 
many other readers, among them Charlotte 
Cushman; but none compared with Fanny 
Kemble. I did not hear Dickens; I was 
too poor. That disappointment spurred 
me up to hearing Fanny Kemble, for it 



The Tomboy at Work 107 

determined me to miss nothing that would 
have given me such pleasure, even though 
I had to sell my boots. 

In a book-store in Philadelphia I picked 
up a little paper-covered volume called 
"Pen Photographs of Dickens's Readings," 
by Kate Field. It was second-hand, and 
I bought it cheap. Reading it, I realised 
more than ever what I had missed. The 
name, Kate Field, was new to me then. 
It had a young sound, and I liked it. I 
learned from the bookseller that the 
writer was young, and I became very much 
interested in this unknown, and read 
everything I saw in the magazines or 
newspapers signed with her name. Some 
years later I came to know her well, and 
it was she who started me on my journal- 
istic career in New York. A brilliant, 
kindly woman was Kate Field. How 
brilliant the world knows — how kind is 
known only to her friends. 

Just at this time I was very much 
thrilled by hearing that there was a young 



io8 The Tomboy at Work 

girl boarding in the house opposite the 
one in which I boarded, who was going to 
be an actress. A Siddons, maybe, or a 
Kemble! She was to make her d^but at 
a local theatre. I doubt if she was much 
more excited than I was, on the auspicious 
night. I could scarcely eat my dinner, 
and hung out of my window at the risk 
of breaking my neck, to see her start for 
the theatre. I watched for an hour, and 
then saw a cab drive up in front of the 
house. After a while, the door opened, 
and the light from the hall fell upon the 
figure of a young woman wrapped in an 
opera-cloak with a bit of lace tied loosely 
around her head. A woman with a small 
bag in her hand followed, and carried her 
train as she ran lightly down the marble 
steps. The young woman jumped into 
the cab, the other spoke a word of direction 
to the driver, the door slammed, the 
horse's hoofs beat fire out of the cobble- 
stones; then all was dark. I followed the 
cab with my eyes as it rattled down the 



The Tomboy at Work 109 

street and disappeared in the darkness. 
What a great thing to be an actress! 
Glittering costumes, the magic of the foot- 
lights, music, and wild applause, columns 
of praise in the newspapers, riches, and 
fame! That is what I thought then; but 
that was a long time ago, and the young 
actress whom I had envied on that night 
was never heard of again. She twinkled 
for a moment, and then her light went out. 



CHAPTER IX 

Notwithstanding the gaieties of life in 
Philadelphia, I longed for my home, for 
my mother, my brothers, and my sisters. 
I made the same argument that Dixey had 
made: that I might as well turn all of my 
income into the family exchequer as to 
pay out half of it to a boarding-house 
keeper. It never entered into my calcula- 
tions that I could not earn as much money 
in Newark as I had earned in Trenton or 
Philadelphia. I began to get restless. 
So one day, after I had been in the Mint 
but a short time, I asked for the usual 
month's holiday. We were allowed the 
month with a full month's pay. When 
the superintendent gave me my advance, 
I told him plainly that I might not come 
back, and that perhaps for that reason I 
was not entitled to my vacation money. 
xio 



The Tomboy at Work iii 

"I think that the United States Govern- 
ment can stand it," said he. "Your 
father lost his life in the service of his 
country; you have done your work well 
since you have been here, and we will 
take our chances about your coming 
back," handing me the money at the same 
time. 

When I told my fellow-workers that I 
might not come back, they expressed much 
regret, at which I was not altogether 
surprised, for I had certainly ** enlivened 
things a bit " among them. I burned 
my bridges behind me, and set out to 
fmd something to do in Newark. 

I found the family settled in a hideously 
commonplace house, at the corner of a 
street in a thoroughly respectable neigh- 
bourhood. In the basement were the 
kitchen and dining-room; and there were 
two drawing-rooms on the first floor. The 
drawing-rooms were furnished with Spartan 
plainness — a Pleyel grand piano, at least 
fifty years old, but very graceful and still 



112 The Tomboy at Work 

sweet-toned, being the only relief to its 
severity. 

I did not find a position as soon as I had 
hoped, but that did not discourage me. 
I knew that something would be found. 
In the meantime, I was not idle. Those 
were the days of the stereoscope, and I 
heard of a man who gave out photographs 
to be coloured. I called upon him, and 
said I would like to undertake the job. I 
talked a little art - twaddle with him, 
treated him as though I regarded him as 
an artist, and secured the work. 

' ' How many photographs will you take ? " 
said he. 

"All you have," I replied, and he turned 
them over to me, together with the neces- 
sary paraphernalia for colouring them. 

It was great fun. My sisters helped me, 
and we had a good time. At first we 
thought that we would paint the people 
and scenes as in real life, but that was 
entirely too tame. We threw reality to 
the winds, and painted landscapes that 



The Tomboy at Work 113 

Turner might have envied. Such sunsets 
were never seen on land or sea, and when 
it came to men and women we garbed 
them as for a carnival. 

The photographer was enchanted. He 
said that I was a born colourist — that I 
ought to devote my life to art. I did not 
tell him that I had too much respect for 
art, but that was the truth. He paid me 
fifteen dollars — ^which I divided with my 
sisters — and said, almost with tears in his 
eyes, that he could not give out any more 
work, as business was so bad. He would 
have to do the colouring himself, which 
was such a pity, when I was so talented. 
I was sorry, too, but immediately looked 
about for something else to do. 

We had a few calls on New Yearns Day; 
not many, for we did not know many 
people. Among the callers was a new 
friend, but one who took much interest 
in us, first, because he was of a kindly 
nature, and, second, because he considered 
us a talented family. So we were — some 



114 The Tomboy at Work 

of us; I was not of the number. We had 
the drawing-room in better shape now; 
books and magazines were scattered about. 
When I think of our "drop light," I cannot 
help smiling. It was the first we ever had, 
and we thought it a dream of beauty. It 
was in imitation bronze, and represented 
a falconer in doublet and boots, a plumed 
hat upon his head, and a falcon perched 
upon his gauntleted finger. The price of 
this masterpiece was fourteen dollars, but 
the gasfitter and plumber from whom 
Dixey bought it let him have it at trade 
rates, as they were fellow-poets. The 
gasfitter was also a great admirer of Shake- 
speare, and had made a pilgrimage to 
Stratford-upon-Avon, not so common a 
thing in those days as now. We kept 
that drop light long after we realised its 
weak points artistically, but it has gone 
now, though it will never be forgotten by 
me. 

To return to our caller. He came to 
wish us a Happy New Year, but more 



The Tomboy at Work 115 

particularly to tell me that he had found 
a position for me. The city auditor, who 
was a friend of his, needed another clerk, 
and our friend mentioned me to him. 
He hesitated, as he had never had a girl 
in his office, and was not sure that he 
cared to have one. Our kind friend 
argued that I was a wonderful mathe- 
matician and devoted to business; that 
he would have no trouble with me on the 
score of flirtations; and that he at least 
might give me a trial. And this he con- 
sented to do. I gasped audibly when I 
heard our friend say that I was a wonderful 
mathematician, for I could not add two 
and two together and make them four. I 
said nothing, for I determined to take the 
place if I could get it, and trust to luck 
for the result. I was like the man who, 
when asked if he could play the violin, said 
he didn't know, for he had never tried. 
I, however, was determined to try. 

Work was to begin the next day, and I 
was at the auditor's office bright and early. 



ii6 The Tomboy at Work 

That functionary was very amiable, and 
introduced me to the only other clerk, who, 
he said, would show me what I was to do. 
The young man was very amiable also, and 
took a good deal of pains to instruct me. 
My duties were entirely mathematical. 
Column after column of figures was to be 
added up. "That's all," said he. "Mere 
child's play." 

Child's play! Show me the child that 
would find that sort of work play, and I 
will show you a monstrosity. I went at 
it, however, and was surprised to see how 
quickly I could add. I wrote the result 
on a scrap of paper, and then added down 
the column to make sure. Unhappily, 
instead of proving me right, this second 
attempt only proved me wrong. A third 
time I went slowly up the column; the 
result was unlike either of the others. It 
was now quite clear to my mind that, should 
I go over those figures fifty times, I would 
get fifty different results. This was a try- 
ing conclusion. 



The Tomboy at Work 117 

"There's something wrong about these 
figures," I confided to the head clerk. "I 
can't make them come out right." 

"Let me see," said he, and, taking the 
figured paper in his hand, he ran up three 
columns at a time, jotting down the result. 
"That seems to be right," he continued, 
and to prove it ran gaily down the column. 
The result was the same as the first, and, 
looking over his shoulder, I saw that it was 
unlike any of my totals. I sat down at 
my desk and thought. How was I going 
to earn my salary by adding figures if I 
could not get the correct result? As I 
thought, I whistled softly an aria from 
"Don Giovanni." 

"How well you whistle," said my fellow- 
worker. "I'd give a good deal to do that. 
I love music more than anything, and I 
can't turn a tune to save my life." 

I expressed my astonishment, and, to 
show off my accomplishment, whistled an 
aria from "Martha " and another from the 
"Traviata." 



ii8 The Tomboy at Work 

"It's a great gift," said he regretfully. 
Then brightening, "I'll tell you what " 

"What?" 

"If you'll whistle opera tunes to me, I'll 
add up your figures." 

The bargain was struck at once. I had 
a large repertoire, and he was delighted. It 
was something like my Mint experience. I 
played while he worked. He was more 
than satisfied, but I was not. Ten dollars 
a week for whistling a few tunes seemed 
like overpay. I was convinced that I 
could not earn the money by adding, and I 
did not care to earn it by whistling, as that 
was not what I had been hired for. After 
a few weeks, during which time I had tried 
hard to make a mathematician of myself, 
I went to the auditor and handed in my 
resignation. 

"I am quite satisfied," said he. "You 
have done your work remarkably well — 
for a girl, and I shall be very glad to have 
you continue." 

Then I explained to him that I had not 



The Tomboy at Work 119 

done it at all, and told him just how it had 
been done. He seemed very much aston- 
ished, but agreed with me that it was not 
quite the way to earn a salary. 

The head clerk was very sorry to have 
me go. He said that the extra work was 
nothing; that he was more than repaid by 
the music — that is what he called it — and 
that he would miss it very much. 

So ended my first and last attempt to 
earn my living by figures. No amount of 
practice could make an arithmetician of 
me, and even now, if I can balance my 
bank-book twice a month, I am satisfied, 
and so is my bank. 



CHAPTER X 

My experience as an adder was short- 
lived. Whistling was easy work, but it 
was too easy, and I was not sorry that 
I had resigned the post, for, with the con- 
fidence of youth, I felt sure that I should 
soon find something else to do. 

Sure enough, the something else was not 
long in coming. The newspaper that 
Dixey was on wanted a proof-reader, and 
through his influence I was offered the job. 
I took it, though I had no more knowledge 
of proof-reading than of Sanscrit. How- 
ever, that was a mere detail. In the back 
of Webster's Dictionary there was a full 
explanation of proof-reading, with examples 
of the art. I spent an evening in studying 
the subject, and corrected some "galleys" 
of printed matter that Dixey brought home 
with him for me to try my 'prentice hand 
1 20 



The Tomboy at Work 121 

upon. The next day I entered upon my 
duties. The son of the editor was my asso- 
ciate. He had experience, so he corrected 
the printed slips while I held the "copy" 
— ^journalese for manuscript. It was his 
task to read aloud, mine to follow and catch 
any mistakes in sense, word, or punctuation. 
As is the manner of proof-readers, he read 
in a monotonous voice thus: 

"As shows the air when with a rainbow grac 
apostrophy d comma new Hne So smiles that 
r-i-b-a-n-d apostrophy bout my Julia s apos- 
trophy waist semi-colon new line Or like dash 
nay comma apostrophy t that z-o-n-u-l-e-t of 
love comma wherein all pleasures of the world 
are wove period. 

It was impossible for me to keep my 
mind on the ' ' copy. ' ' It would go wander- 
ing off to other things — castles in Spain 
which I was always building. For a 
strenuous young person, I was a good deal 
of a dreamer, and I am pleased to find that 
Herbert Spencer confesses to having in- 
dulged in the same habit, and that he con- 



122 The Tomboy at Work 

sidered a certain amount of it a good thing. 
I have lived in several of my castles, and 
hope to live in more before I die. The 
proprietor of the Daily evidently did not 
share Mr. Spencer's view of the case, and 
after I had disgraced the paper by allowing 
a number of bad typographical blunders 
to escape me, I realised that my resignation 
would be accepted without regret if I should 
offer it. One day I let something get into 
the paper that raised a hornet's nest over 
my head. I was as innocent of it as a 
babe. It must have been something ter- 
rible, for no one would tell me what it was. 
The entire edition was sold out the moment 
the paper appeared on the streets. I 
looked through the copy on the office file, 
but could find nothing. I noticed that a 
two-inch square was cut out of a certain 
column. "That must be it," I thought, 
and hastened to the nearest newsdealer's. 
"Have you this evening's Daily?" I in- 
quired. Yes, he had it, but that same two 
inches was cut out. 



The Tomboy at Work 123 

"Could you let me have a perfect copy?" 
I asked. 

"I wish that I had a dozen of them," he 
answered regretfully, "for I could get a 
dollar apiece for them as easy as rolling off 
a log." 

"Why are they in such demand?" I 
inquired. 

"Some slip of the printer's." 

"What was it?" 

"Sorry, I can't tell you. It was pretty 
bad, though. Whoever let that go will 
catch it." 

As I was one of the proof-readers, I sup- 
pose that I was as guilty as my associate, 
though I have often thought that, whatever 
the error was, perhaps the fault might have 
been with the compositor. However, I 
was responsible, and I decided to resign 
before I was asked to do so. 

" I don't think that you are cut out for a 
proof-reader," said the proprietor, and I 
thoroughly agreed with him. He did not 
tell me what the mistake was, and after my 



124 The Tomboy at Work 

interview with the newsdealer I thought it 
as well not to ask. 

The next opportunity offered me was in 
the office of the Registrar of Deeds. The 
work was not interesting; it was merely 
the copying of deeds from the lawyers' 
papers into a large leather-bound folio. 
There were a dozen or more women en- 
gaged in the work, and we were paid five 
cents a hundred words. I saw a great 
opportunity. Space work suited me, for I 
wrote a good hand, and rapidly. But oh, 
how deadly dull was the work! The tire- 
some repetitions of the law, enlivened by 
technical descriptions of the property con- 
veyed by John Doe to Richard Roe. I put 
in longer hours than any one else in the 
office, ate a luncheon of pilot-biscuit dipped 
in salt as I wrote, and earned twenty dollars 
a week! This was riches. I was the most 
successful wage-earner in the family. I did 
not like the work. As with proof-reading, I 
could not keep my mind on it, and at the 
end of the week, when our work was "com- 



The Tomboy at Work 125 

pared" — that is, when, as in proof-reading, 
one held the original and read from it while 
the other followed the writing in the book — 
the errors in my work were fearful to 
behold, and took me hours of time to cor- 
rect. 

I knew perfectly well that I had not 
found my niche yet, but I could not afford 
to sit around and wait till it found me. I 
had to earn my salt and the salt of others, 
and idleness was out of the question as well 
as very distasteful. I loved to work, even 
if not in the line of my sympathies. What 
I longed for was journalism. It was an 
inherited longing. My father, though a 
preacher and a teacher, had it, and Dixey 
and I inherited it from him. Printer's ink 
ran in our veins, and the click of the type 
against the "stick" was music to our ears. 
I knew that what I longed for would come, 
and I was content to wait. In the mean- 
time, I made the best of my present busi- 
ness and enjoyed life. 

Dixey's newspaper connections gave me 



126 The Tomboy at Work 

many opportunities for visiting the theatres, 
for he was dramatic critic as well as re- 
porter and minor editorial writer on the 
Daily. Some excellent "attractions," as 
they say in the profession, came to Newark, 
and I took them all in. 

The first great theatrical treat I had was 
a week of Edwin Booth. I saw that fine 
actor in all his famous parts. "Hamlet" 
was the first play that I ever saw, and 
though I have seen many Hamlets since, 
from the fascinating Fechter to the ex- 
traordinary Anna Dickinson, and, later, the 
phenomenal Sarah, I have never seen one 
who seemed so absolutely the character 
that Shakespeare drew as Edwin Booth. 
I saw him many times after that memo- 
rable week, and I never changed my opinion. 

Operas came to Newark, too. Not 
"grand opera," as we call it to-day, but 
pretty good opera of its kind. Chief 
among these was the Caroline Richings 
English Opera Company, with the lady 
whose name it bore as prima donna, and 



The Tomboy at Work 127 

Castle as tenor and Campbell the baritone. 
None of the present generation ever heard 
of Castle and Campbell, yet they were 
among the matinee idols of their day. If 
my memory is to be trusted, they were fine 
singers, too, and to hear them in "The 
Bohemian Girl" was something to remem- 
ber. Miss Richings, a conscientious singer, 
was the "girl," while the gypsy woman was 
played by Zelda Seguin; Devilshoof, the 
gypsy man, by Ted Seguin, her husband. 
What a great actor I thought him, and how 
I laughed at his clowning! 

So you see that, while I worked, I played 
also, and was as happy as the day was long. 



CHAPTER XI 

The niche that I wanted to fill at last 
came my way, and I sprang into it. Dixey 
and a young friend of his on the Daily 
decided to start a paper of their own. 
There was no morning paper in Newark. 
Here was a long-felt want, and they deter- 
mined to supply it. Neither of these boys 
had any money, nor had either of them 
any great aptitude for business. They 
were both hard workers, and if they had 
been backed by business management and 
a certain amount of capital they might 
have succeeded. As it was, they only 
struggled on to failure. They started in 
with high spirits and made a good paper — 
too good, I am afraid. We all worked on 
it. Dixey was managing editor and edi- 
torial writer; his partner, young Byrd» 
was general reporter; while Sandy took 
128 



The Tomboy at Work 129 

Police Headquarters as his share. An ex- 
preacher was the business manager and 
capitalist to a small amount, while I wrote 
an irresponsible column called "Breakfast 
Table Talk," which touched upon any topic 
under the sun, and a column of personals 
called "Qui Va La," which the com- 
positors, with fine scorn for foreign words, 
pronounced *' Quiverler." I worked in the 
Registrar's Office for money and the Regis- 
ter office for love. It was a training-school, 
and I could not have had a better trainer 
than Dixey. He "blue-pencilled" my 
finest flights of fancy, and kept me within 
bounds. 

Because of my love of the stage, I 
was allowed to write theatrical notices, 
and, if my memory serves me, I wrote of 
Miss Ada Rehan's debut, which took place 
in Newark. I regret that I do not remem- 
ber her share in it, but I do remember her 
uncle (I believe he was Oliver Doud Byron), 
with whom she appeared. 

How we worked on that paper! Dixey 



I30 The Tomboy at Work 

nearly killed himself. He never thought 
of coming home to his dinner. We used to 
carry it to him in a basket. He was always 
too busy to eat it while it was hot, but laid 
it aside until late in the evening, and then 
ate it cold. Some nights he was too tired 
to come home at all, and would throw him- 
self down on a pile of newspapers in the 
corner and sleep till morning. Then he 
would come home, have his bath and break- 
fast, and hurry back to the office. It was 
hard work, but perhaps it would not have 
hurt him if it had not been accompanied 
by worry. The two ends would not meet. 
Printers' and paper-makers' bills came in 
with alarming regularity, but there was 
little but promises to meet them with. 
This worried Dixey, who hated debt, and, 
though he could not pay his creditors then, 
he did later — every one of them, dollar for 
dollar. 

We all worked hard on the Register, and 
those who did not have the financial end to 
worry over enjoyed it to the full. It was 



The Tomboy at Work 131 

while working on the Register that I learned 
that the New York Forum had no Newark 
reporter, so I began sending news par- 
agraphs to the city editor, at that time 
Mr. Ford, the father of the late Paul L. 
Ford. To my delight, he printed them, 
and one day he sent for me to come over 
and see him. I went at once ; I might say 
I flew. Mr. Ford was surprised to find the 
person who had been sending him Newark 
news a young woman, but he did not seem 
to object, for he at once offered me the 
position of regular reporter at twelve 
dollars a week. With an average of 
twenty from the Registrar, here I was, not 
yet seventeen, earning thirty-two dollars a 
week! It never occurred to me that I was 
burning life's taper at both ends, for that is 
practically what it was. All day copying 
deeds, all the evening writing paragraphs, 
editing "back-matter," that is what we 
called clippings from magazines and news- 
papers. The deed-copying was rather irk- 
some, I admit, and I longed for the day 



132 The Tomboy at Work 

when I should have nothing but newspaper 
work. 

In the meantime, things on the Register 
went from bad to worse. It was losing 
money as only a newspaper can, so Dixey 
and his partner decided to sell out. It is 
one thing to arrive at such a decision in re- 
gard to a newspaper property, and another 
to carry it out. They did not want to 
sacrifice a thing that had cost them so much 
time and debt to establish, and to sell for 
an3rthing like the value represented by their 
work, and the reputation they had given 
the paper, was not to be done in a day ; so 
they hung on. 

In the meantime, a New York magazine 
of dignified character but small circulation 
needed an editor. A friend mentioned 
Dixey's name to the proprietor, and he was 
engaged for the position at fifteen dollars a 
week. This, with what I earned, would 
have been a fairly good income for the fam- 
ily, but it could not be used to that end. 
Dixey did not think it right to desert his 



The Tomboy at Work 133 

partner ; so he paid all of his weekly stipend 
over to a man to take his place on the 
Register until such time as it could be sold. 
That time came at last. I don't think 
that anything was paid for the paper; it 
was merely taken over by a stock company. 
A new managing editor was installed, 
who was good enough to think my services 
worth retaining at a fair price; so I re- 
signed from the Registrar's Office and 
began in earnest the work of my hfe. 
The staff now consisted of the managing 
editor, who was also the leader-writer, a 
reporter, and myself. It was my duty to 
assist both the editor and the reporter, and 
between the two, the writing of scintillating 
paragraphs, and the Forum work, I was 
kept busy, but not too busy to please me. 
The hours were long, for there was much to 
do, and the Register wa,s a morning paper. 
Sometimes I would not leave the office 
until one o'clock or after. I remember 
one night, as I was starting out particulariy 
late— or early, as you prefer— the managing 



134 The Tomboy at Work 

editor said that he would see me to my 
door if I would first go with him to the 
market, which was only a few blocks up 
the street. To this I readily agreed. As 
we walked along the deserted street, he 
descanted upon the luscious things to be 
had in the market. 

"I like to get to the market early, before 
it is yet dawn," said he in his most bom- 
bastic manner. "Then I have the pick 
of everything and can secure the choicest 
bits, before the city has shaken the sleep 
from its eyes. There, for me to choose 
from, are the fruits of all parts of the coun- 
try — the luscious oranges from California, 
the juicy grape, the toothsome apple; the 
blushing tomato, the crisp lettuce and 
jocund bean. And then the fish!" (By 
this time we were in the market-house, 
and my mouth was watering.) **Fish 
fresh from the sea!" he went on; "the 
striped bass perhaps, and from the river 
the shad, while the brook gives up the 
speckled trout. Ah, trout ! I can see the 



The Tomboy at Work 135 

fisherman cast his line, the trout flies up, 
the rod bends, and lo ! in a moment it is in 
the basket, to be broiled for my breakfast. 
Ah! Here are the fish. Let us look at 
them. Beauties, are they not? A fish 
just out of the sea, the river, or the brook, 
that is the thing for me." Then turning 
to the man behind the counter, "What 
have you, my friend?" 

"Almost everything in the fish line." 

"Have you bluefish?" 

"Yes, sir. Seventy-five cents for the 
big ones." 

"Shad from Connecticut River?" 

"Yes, sir. Ninety cents." 

"Roe shad?" 

"Yes, sir. Fat ones, too. A dollar and 

a quarter. Why, this here " The 

editor interrupted him. 

"Delicious, beautiful! I think, how- 
ever, that I will have a salt mackerel. 
Have you any?" 

"I guess there's one somewhere around 
here." And, diving down into a keg under 



136 The Tomboy at Work 

the counter, he produced one dripping 
with brine. 

"A fine fish," said the managing editor, 
counting out fifteen cents. Taking the 
brown paper parcel from the fishmonger, he 
added, "Well worth this early visit to the 
market. There's nothing like a good salt 
mackerel to begin the day on — a feast for 
the gods ! " 

I hardly knew whether to laugh or to 
cry. It was funny, but pathetic too. I 
suppose that he hungered for the fresh 
fish, but his pocket would not permit; so 
he was obliged to thirst after the mackerel. 



CHAPTER XII 

The Redmonds were spending the winter 
in New York, and Kate used to run over 
to Newark now and then to spend the night 
with us. She came over one night when 
Sandy and Dixey were away, and pre- 
tended that she was very nervous at the 
thought of staying all night without a man 
to guard us. She called me to her room 
after she had retired, and there she lay in 
bed with one of Dixey's hats on and 
Sandy's cane in her hand. 

•'What in the world are you doing in 
that rig?" I asked. 

•'If a burglar comes, he will think that 
there is a man in the house," answered 

Kate. 

"If he does, he'll think that he's gone 
to bed the worse for drink, for sober men 
don't go to bed with their hats on." 
137 



138 The Tomboy at Work 

Kate was not to be persuaded, however, 
and slept out the night in her strange 
attire. There were no burglars, fortunately. 
I think, if there had been, they would have 
thought they had broken into a lunatic 
asylum. 

I had never been to an opera in New 
York, so when Kate a^ked me to go with 
her to a matinee of "Faust," with Clara 
Louise Kellogg, then in the heyday of her 
fame, as Marguerite, I jumped at the 
chance. The Academy of Music was the 
fashionable opera house of New York at 
that time. It was not so gorgeous as the 
Metropolitan Opera House, but its simple 
decoration set off the costumes of the ladies 
to the best advantage. There were not so 
many diamonds to be seen — fewer crowned 
heads had disposed of their jewels at that 
time — but necks and arms were just as 
beautiful then as now, and the "horse- 
shoe" on a gala night was worth seeing. 
Opera was rather a cosy function in those 
days. The people all knew each other. 



The Tomboy at Work 139 

The most enthusiastic patrons of music oc- 
cupied the proscenium boxes. There was 
one family whose presence seemed almost 
necessary to give the singers inspiration. 
The curtain would remain down while the 
manager peeped through a hole in the 
sliding door, that he might give the signal 
for the overture the moment they ap- 
peared. It was the rarest thing for them 
to miss a performance, and the singers, 
who are a more or less superstitious class, 
were quite out of sorts if those two heads 
of snow-white hair were not in evidence. 
They were a handsome couple, and their 
distinguished bearing was a notable feature 
of an opera night. Who nowadays cares 
for the occupants of any one box at the 
opera? Dozens of boxes attract the at- 
tention of the sitters in the stalls, but the 
singers are interested in no one box in 
particular. It matters little to them if 
certain leaders of fashion are or are not on 
hand, so long as the audience is large and 
enthusiastic. 



I40 The Tomboy at Work 

I was more or less excited about going 
to the opera in New York, and I was more 
excited when the music began. From 
that day to this, "Faust" has been my 
favourite opera, and from that day to 
this Clara Louise Kellogg has been my 
favourite prima donna. I think that I 
have heard every opera that has ever been 
sung in this country, and every famous 
singer that has ever sung here, and I still 
adhere to my early conviction. 

Not only the music of "Faust," but the 
story, thrilled me. I felt that Miss Kel- 
logg was Marguerite, and I was so wrought 
up over her wrongs that I could have 
slain Mephistopheles on the spot. I de- 
termined to know her, and vowed then 
and there to leave no stone unturned to 
that end. I thought it bold of me, because 
she seemed a thing apart — one who sat 
upon a pedestal all day, and if she ate at 
all it was sparingly of nectar and ambrosia. 
I asked every one I knew whether he 
or she knew Clara Louise Kellogg, and 



The Tomboy at Work 141 

not one of them did. I was desperate. 
Some weeks later, when the opera season 
was over, she was advertised to appear 
in concert in Newark. Now was my 
opportunity ! She could not escape me. 
I told the manager of the Newark Opera 
House what I wanted, and he said that 
he would arrange it, and he did. I was to 
go behind the scenes with him, and he 
would introduce me to Max Strakosch, who 
in turn would introduce me to the prima 
donna. I stood in the "wings" during the 
entire performance. The prima donna 
brushed past me as she made her entrances 
and exits. Once she seemed to notice 
that there was a gawky girl staring hard 
at her through burning black eyes, but 
she said nothing. I applauded her with 
such violence that the audience, if it 
heard me, must have thought I was the 
leader of the claque. 

The prima donna was obliged to sing 
two or three encores to every song. They 
were the old familiar ballads — "Comin' 



142 The Tomboy at Work 

Thro' the Rye," "Edinboro' Town," 
"Janet's Choice," and "Home, Sweet 
Home." In answer to a double encore, 
she drew off her long gloves, and seated 
herself at the piano, and sang the then 
popular song, "Beware," to her own ac- 
companiment. She sang the words with 
much archness, and the audience went 
wild with delight. They miuch preferred 
the ballads to the opera arias. When, 
with a "naughty little twinkle in her eye," 
she looked down at the front row and 
sang, "Beware! Take care!" then con- 
fidingly, "Trust her not, she's fooling 
thee," the house rose to her. I preferred 
the "Faust" music and manner, but I 
was enchanted, as were the others. After 
the performance, I was taken to the 
prima donna's dressing-room, a dingy, 
shabby hole, transfigured in my eyes to a 
throne room by the presence of this queen 
of song. She was amiable, and smiled 
graciously upon my commonplace remarks. 
She told me afterward that she thought I 



The Tomboy at Work 143 

seemed a little mad, and I dare say that 
I did. It was an exciting occasion for me. 
Clara Louise Kellogg was then one of the 
three great singers of the world. She 
was the first really famous person I had 
ever met, and I was a good deal of a 
hero-worshipper in those days. 

I determined that I would not be a 
mere behind-the-scenes acquaintance, and 
I followed up my introduction with a call 
some time later. She was good enough 
to see me, and I dare say that I enjoyed 
the visit, though I remember that I was 
very much shocked when I heard her say- 
that she would like to have some picked-up 
codfish for her luncheon. It took us some 
time to become friends, because, as she 
afterward told me, I put her on a pedestal, 
and she did not enjoy the situation. But 
what could you expect? I could only 
think of her in the role that she sang, and 
that put her in a class apart. I have since 
learned that great artists are very much 
like other people in their daily lives. In 



144 The Tomboy at Work 

their temperaments, they are very unlike 
the rest of us, but they eat and dress and 
sleep the same as their fellows. That 
they enjoy corned-beef hash and picked-up 
codfish is the most natural thing in the 
world. Hotel life, highly seasoned food, 
unnatural hours, give them a relish for 
homely food and quiet ways that those 
whose life is cast along other lines do not 
understand. I don't think that I ever 
knew an actor or a singer who did not 
look forward to a life of retirement on a 
farm. There is nothing strange about 
this. It is the natural longing for a life 
of quiet after a life of intense excitement. 

Now that the ice was broken, I went 
frequently to opera matinees in New 
York, and it was at the Academy of Music 
that I heard all the great singers of a past 
generation. 

The Register had no Sunday edition, so 
that Saturday was our holiday. We began 
work on Sunday afternoon, but we did not 
find much to do. We got most of our 



The Tomboy at Work 145 

news from the few Sunday papers then 
published in New York. We were pretty 
sure that our readers had not seen it, for 
most of them objected to Sunday news- 
papers, and depended upon Monday morn- 
ing's paper to tell them what had happened 
on Saturday as well as on Sunday. Some- 
how or other, things did not seem to 
happen, and our Monday issue was not 
very thrilling. 

I worked for a long time on the Register, 
and, though the work was not altogether 
congenial, I felt that I was on the right 
track, and enjoyed every minute of it. I 
did the so-called ** Amusements," wrote 
the "Breakfast Table Talk," the ''Qui 
Va Ldf" column, the literary notes 
and book reviews, the minor editorials, 
did some special reporting, and kept up my 
Forum connection. 

Our editor was one of the old-fashioned 
sort, who loved his pipe and whiskey. He 
was a *' decayed gentleman " and scholar. 
If he could have let drink alone, he would 



146 The Tomboy at Work 

have been a valuable man on any paper. 
You cotdd tell the time by his visits to the 
*' saloon" next to our office. Nothing 
could have been more regular. When he 
came to the office he was usually sober, 
but before the evening was out his head 
was down upon his desk and he was off in 
a drunken sleep. Before sleep overtook 
him, he was apparently wide awake, but, 
when he took hold of his pen, it slipped 
about and he could not write, though his 
mind seemed to be perfectly clear. I 
remember one night, on the eve of an 
election, he had a very important leader to 
write, but he could not hold his pen. 
He beckoned me over to his desk. "I 
don't know what has got into my hand," 
he said. "I must have writer's cramp; 
my pen flies all over the paper. Would 
you mind taking down the leader to my 
dictation?" 

I was not a stenographer, but I could 
write long-hand rapidly. I knew well 
enough what the trouble was, but said 



The Tomboy at Work 147 

nothing more than that I would be very 
glad to help him out. 

He dictated, and I wrote. Every sen- 
tence balanced; every argument was clearly 
set forth. It was a brilliant editorial. 
When it was finished, his head dropped 
upon his desk and he was soon in a drunken 
stupor. I sent the * ' copy " into the compos- 
ing room, and read the proof when it was 
set up. The next day the stockholders com- 
plimented the editor, and even the New 
York dailies of the same political leanings 
copied the editorial into their columns, 
with flattering comment. 

On another occasion his potations had 
been entirely too much for him. He could 
not even dictate. 

"I've a terrible headache," he said. 
"Everything is swimming before my eyes. 
I can't think, much less write. I wonder 
whether you could not write something for 
me. You know our views. Don't commit us 
to the other side, whatever you do." His 
voice was getting very drowsy. "Perhaps 



148 The Tomboy at Work 

I'd better lie down; that might help my 
head." 

I said that I thought it would, and he 
curled up on a pile of "exchanges" — 
newspapers — in a corner. Soon he was 
fast asleep. I seized a pen and began to 
write. This was my opportunity. It was 
during the Greeley campaign. The old 
war-horse of the Republican party was 
the Democratic candidate for the presi- 
dency. Our paper was Democratic, right 
or wrong, so we shouted for Greeley. I 
wish that I had a copy of that editorial. 
I proved by ingenious argument that 
"Uncle Horace" was always a Democrat 
at heart, and he was only now coming out 
in his true colours. If he ever read my 
editorial, he must have writhed under it. 
I don't know whether he ever read it, but 
our stockholders did, and the chairman 
dropped in at the office to speak to the 
editor about it. I was there, and heard 
the conversation, the substance of which 
was not flattery. 



The Tomboy at Work 149 

"Did you write this morning's leader?" 
he asked. 

"Who else do you suppose wrote it?" 

"It didn't sound like you." 

"Didn't it? Who did it sound like, 
Greeley himself?" 

"No, hardly; it was too light-waisted 
for either of you." 

"Light-waisted! That's the first time 
that one of my leaders was ever called 
light-waisted. (He had already had two 
cocktails.) If you are not satisfied with 

my work, Mr. , if the stockholders 

are displeased with my leaders, my resigna- 
tion is at your service. Light-waisted, 
indeed ! I never wrote a better leader 
than that. It was brilliant, positively 
brilliant, though I say it that shouldn't." 

The chairman knew that it would be 
hard to find so capital an editor for the 
paltry salary paid, so he changed his tone. 

"My dear sir, we would not accept your 
resignation if you offered it. Perhaps I 
am mistaken; the editorial may not have 



ISO The Tomboy at Work 

been light- waist ed, but it certainly was 
not in your fine sonorous style." 

"Must one always be sonorous? I like 
to show my readers that I am versatile, 
but I accept your apology, and will 
remain." 

The chairman took his departure. The 
editor winked at me, and went out for 
another cocktail. 



CHAPTER XIII 

Dixey's position as editor of a New 
York magazine of high standing, though 
small pay, brought him into relations with 
many interesting men and women of letters. 
Some of them happened to be lecturers, 
and when they came to Newark we put 
them up for the night. The late Charles 
Dudley Warner was the first of our 
distinguished visitors. I think that, if 
my mother had been consulted, she would 
have hesitated to invite a stranger to our 
humble and inconvenient home. But 
Dixey was of too hospitable a nature to be 
deterred by anything of that sort. The 
first we knew of Mr. Warner's coming 
was a telegram from Dixey in New York. 

A telegram always frightened my mother. 
She tore the envelope and read this : 

"Mr. Warner to dinner this evening and 
151 



152 The Tomboy at Work 

spend the night; have ordered finger- 
bowls." 

The shock of having to prepare for so 
distinguished a visitor on such short 
notice was softened by the fact that 
we were to have finger-bowls. We had 
never enjoyed this luxury, but had always 
longed for it. When Sandy came home to 
his luncheon, we told him of our guest 
and the bowls, and he said that we must 
have fruit; that finger-bowls called for 
fruit, and it was foolish to have one 
without the other. He also said that we 
should have wine. 

"Wine calls for wine-glasses," said I. 
"Where are you going to get them?" 

"I will provide both," said Sandy, with 
a lordly toss of his head, and, sure enough, 
he did. He came home early to take a 
hand in the dinner preparations, carrying 
the two bottles of wine and the wine- 
glasses with him. He also brought some 
crackers and cheese, for he determined to 
do the thing properly. Marty and Miney 



The Tomboy at Work 153 

set the dinner-table, and were for putting 
the finger-bowls on at the start, as they 
were many-coloured and looked very gay 
on the white cloth. Finger-bowls were 
not as common in private houses in the 
early seventies as they are to-day, which 
accounts for our delight in them ; and then 
my sisters were very young. How we 
admired that table, with its red Persian 
bowl of fruit in the centre and the grace- 
ful wine-glasses at each place! On the 
sideboard stood the two claret bottles, 
the crackers, and the cheese. 

Our one servant was a good cook and a 
most obliging woman, but how was she 
going to cook the dinner and serve it to 
so large a party? 

**I*11 be the butler," said Sandy, "and 
wait on the table." 

** Swell butlers don't have mustaches," 
I suggested. 

"I'll shave," said he. 

"But Mr. Warner will know that we are 
too poor to keep a man-servant." 



154 The Tomboy at Work 

"Too poor now, perhaps, but we be- 
long to the 'have beens,' and I, your 
faithful servant, have stuck to you through 
thick and thin. Leave it to me." 

And we did. 

We were all assembled in the tiny 
drawing-room — Mr. Warner, my mother, 
Dixey, my two sisters and I — ^when the door 
opened, and there stood the most respect- 
able old family servant you ever saw. 
He was dressed in a claw-hammer coat, 
with a striped waistcoat that looked like 
part of an old livery; his hair was gray, 
his mouth dropped at the corners, and 
his shoulders had the stoop of age. 

"Madame is served," he said, bowing 
solemnly to my mother. We would have 
laughed aloud and betrayed ourselves 
had we seen the least glimmer of a smile 
in Sandy's eyes, but his solemnity struck 
awe to our souls. At table, he waited 
upon us to perfection, and whenever he 
spoke his Irish brogue was delicious. I 
have no doubt that Mr. Warner envied us 



The Tomboy at Work 155 

that faithful and accomplished servant. 
Miney, who was at the giggling age, re- 
treated behind her napkin once or twice 
and nearly broke us all up, but she re- 
covered herself in time to save the day. 

If you could have seen us drink that 
claret and use those finger-bowls, you 
would have envied us. Oh, happy days, 
when finger-bowls and St. Julien added so 
much to the joy of living! 

After dinner, I stood for some time 
regarding the table with admiring eyes. 
It looked like the "real thing," with its 
red, blue, green, and yellow finger-bowls, 
and glasses with a dash of the red wine in 
them! 

Dixey and Mr. Warner left early for 
the lecture-hall, and Sandy, after he had 
removed his badges of ofiice, suggested 
making potato salad for the evening, for 
he said that lecturers always liked a bite 
of something after their work was done, 
and nothing could be better as a "night- 
cap" than a potato salad and beer. 



156 The Tomboy at Work 

Aunt Frances, who was staying with us, 
but who had not felt equal to the excite- 
ment of the dinner, sat at the table while 
Sandy made the salad. 

"I'm so glad that you are going to make 
a potato salad, Sandy," said she. "You 
know how fond I am of it. Give me some 
now, before you put in the oil — or the onion 
— or the vinegar. I don't care for them, 
you know." 

"Why don't you ask for a cold potato 
and some salt, then?" said Sandy. 

"Oh, I should not like that at all ! You 
see you slice the potatoes and put pepper 
with the salt; that makes a great dif- 
ference." 

He helped her bountifully, and she was 
delighted, saying, as she ate it, "You 
certainly know how to make a potato 
salad. I must learn your recipe." 

Mr. Warner had just published "Back- 
Log Studies," and his reputation was 
being quickly made. I don't remember 
whether we went to the lecture or not. I 



The Tomboy at Work 157 

am sure, however, that, if we did, we had a 
rare treat, and that, if we did not, we 
missed one. We found Mr. Wamer so 
genial, so easy to get along with, that, 
having the finger-bowls now in stock, we 
quite looked forward to entertaining dis- 
tinguished visitors. 

Some time later, that inimitable come- 
dian, John T. Raymond, and his wife, the 
beautiful Marie Gordon, came to Newark, 
and with them Miss Kate Field, whose 
book on Dickens' readings had filled my 
soul with envy and deUght. It seems that 
Miss Field's parents had been actors, and 
she had an idea of following their profession. 
As a preliminary, Mr. Raymond took her 
into his company, and she played Laura 
Hawkins to his Colonel Sellers in Mark 
Twain's "Gilded Age." Miss Field had 
contributed to the magazine that Dixey 
edited, so he asked her to stay with us the 
night that she played in Newark. I got 
him to extend the invitation to Mr. and 
Mrs. Raymond for dinner, which we had 



158 The Tomboy at Work 

quite early on account of the theatre. 
It was not a formal dinner, but was more 
like a "high tea." I remember that we 
had some kind of hot cakes that we called 
volcanos, because they puffed up in the 
centre like Italy's famous volcanic moun- 
tain. Mr. Raymond enjoyed them im- 
mensely, and stayed beyond the time he 
should, to get some of a newly baked 
batch. 

Mr. Raymond was a great man for 
"guying," and, as he came on the stage, 
some minutes late, he said, as if it were 
part of the play, "I suppose I am a little 
late, but it was those volcanos at the 
Gilberts. I couldn't leave them; they 
were the best things I ever ate." 

We nearly rolled off of our seats with 
laughter, and expected to see the whole 
house looking at us, but they thought it 
was in the play, and laughed only as they 
did at Raymond's other jokes. Though 
Raymond was always guying on the 
stage, he never allowed others to. I re- 



The Tomboy at Work 159 

member once being in Philadelphia when 
he was playing Sellers, and Mrs. Raymond 
suggested that we go on in the trial scene 
and sit with the witnesses. "It will be a 
great lark," said she; "we'll break John 
all up." 

So on we went, and when the doughty 
Colonel saw us, instead of our breaking him 
up he broke us up. Pointing directly at 
me, he said: 

"Why there's Miss Gilbert, come on 
from Newark to attend the trial. Well, 
that's mighty good of you, Miss Gilbert," 
and, coming forward, he shook hands 
with me so violently that he almost 
dragged me off the stand. I could hardly 
keep from laughing, though I felt very 
much embarrassed. Again the audience 
did not suspect anything out of the way, 
and the play went on. 

Raymond enjoyed guying off as well as 
on the stage. I visited the Centennial 
Exhibition at Philadelphia with him 
and Mrs. Raymond, and there he never 



i6o The Tomboy at Work 

stopped his jokes. One of the features of 
the exhibition was a series of wax figures, 
showing scenes in the Hfe of certain 
Scandinavian peasants. One of these 
groups represented a family standing 
around the crib of a dead child. It was a 
very lifelike group, and Raymond made 
believe that he thought it real. He 
looked at the child, then at the grief - 
stricken parents. His eyes filled with 
tears, his lips quivered, and he was the 
picture of sympathetic grief. The crowd 
looked at him half pityingly, half amused. 
His sorrow was too much for one of the 
lookers-on. She put her hand gently on 
his shoulder. 

"It is not real," said she cheeringly. 
"These are only wax figures. Dry your 
eyes, my friend." 

"Not real!" said Raymond, drying his 
eyes. "Not real! Do you mean to tell 
me that is a wax corpse and that those 
are wax tears in the eyes of those broken- 
hearted parents? I wish I could believe 



The Tomboy at Work i6i 

you, madam. Their grief is as genuine as 
mine. Excuse me," and he wept again. 
Then others in the crowd reassured him, 
and, finally, he admitted that he was 
convinced. 

"It is hard to believe," said he, "that 
those figures are not real. I have never 
been more moved. It is a shame to get 
a man so worked up over wax. It isn't 
right," and wiping his eyes again, he 
walked mournfully away, Mrs. Raymond 
and I following in the distance. 

No recital gives any idea of these 
jokes of Raymond's. It was his voice, 
his gestures, the way he did it, that was 
so funny. 



CHAPTER XIV 

While there was usually plenty of 
news in Newark to make items out of for 
the Tribune, there were times when it 
was scarce, and on these occasions we 
"correspondents" had to do a little 
manufacturing. If we had been paid 
space rates we would not have done it, 
but just to help out it did not seem so bad. 
The Sun representative and I cooked up 
the stories. They were usually about a 
farmer by the name of Goodman, who had 
gone to sleep on a load of vegetables and 
been robbed of his pocket-book. At 
another time, this farmer by the name of 
Goodman would be run into by a smart 
trap driven by a stranger, whose name 
could not be ascertained. When there 
was anything big going on, and the New 
York papers knew of it, they sent out 
162 



The Tomboy at Work 163 

special reporters. One night something 
very big happened, and I telegraphed the 
Tribune for a special, but before he came 
I had sent in my story — everything you 
write in a newspaper office is a "story" or 
"stuff." 

A well-known citizen, a man of the best 
social connections, had been murdered — 
shot down in cold blood — by a man of a 
much inferior social position, the cause 
being jealousy. The case was a celebrated 
one, and it was the biggest story I had 
undertaken while I was with the Tribune. 
After the first story was printed, the specials 
took it up. I think that every New York 
paper had three or four men on the case. 
I was very glad to be relieved of it, for 
the work was not very pleasant. That 
was my one and only experience with a 
murder case. 

The dryest part of my work was when 
the elections were on. I did not have 
the national or State elections to report, 
but some of our local elections were of 



i64 The Tomboy at Work 

sufficient interest in New York to necessi- 
tate full reports. These kept me up all 
night and put me in a nervous state as 
well, for I was always afraid of missing 
something. How different the old way 
from the present. We thought that we 
"hustled" in those days, and no doubt we 
did, but we hustled in such small numbers 
that it seems very quiet and easy-going 
by comparison. 

Ours was the only morning paper in 
Newark at that time. There were two 
evening papers, one rich and old-fashioned, 
the other poor and timid. The editor of 
the latter was a great friend of our editor. 
They were men of the same tastes in 
certain things, and took their afternoon 
toddies together. One afternoon, our editor 
stopped for a chat in the office of his 
friend, and having had perhaps a little 
more toddy than was good for him, he 
got to abusing his brother editor for 
his shortcomings, principally for his want 
of snap. 



The Tomboy at Work 165 

"There is no ginger in your editorials. 
They are too mild. Why don't you say- 
something once in a while, instead of 
grinding out platitudes. Slaughter your 
enemies, attack your friends, show some 
spirit. Why don't you go for me, for 
instance — ^in this style: take your pencil, 
and I'll show you h.0Y<r to do it." 

The other took his pencil and wrote at 
our editor's dictation: 

"The editor of our esteemed morning 
contemporary is drawing money under 
false pretenses. His employers, poor blind 
fools, take him to be a sober, industrious 
man. He is neither sober nor industrious. 
Most of his time is spent in barrooms, 
while his subordinates do the work. It 
is no wonder that his paper is made 
ridiculous by his vapourings. If it were 
not for a certain brilliant young lady on 
his staff, the initials of whose name are 
Nell Gilbert, who writes his editorials 
when he is incapable of doing so, his 
incapacity would long since have been 



i66 The Tomboy at Work 

discovered. There," continued my chief, 
rising from his chair, "that's the way 
to do it. Dip your pen in ginger — any 
one can use ink. Come along now and 
let's have another; it's been a long time 
since the last." 

The friends linked arms and sauntered 
into the nearest saloon. They must have 
remained unusually long discussing the 
affairs of the nation. It was well after 
the time for the evening paper to go to 
press before its editor returned. In the 
meantime, the foreman was looking around 
for editorial copy. He was in the habit 
of searching the editor's desk for it in 
his absence, and this time he found just 
what he was looking for right on the top 
of the blotting-pad, the ink scarcely dry 
upon it. He picked up the "copy" 
without reading it, and cut it up into 
"takes" with his shears. In a few minutes 
it was in type, and in a few more it was 
off the press. 

As the editors left the saloon, newsboys 



The Tomboy at Work 167 

were shouting the paper. Like all journal- 
ists, the editor was eager to see his own 
' * stuff. ' ' He turned quickly to the editorial 
page. As his eyes caught the first para- 
graph, the blood left his cheeks. 

"Holy smoke!" or something worse, he 
exclaimed, looking with frightened eyes 
at my chief. 

"What is it?" said the latter. 

"Holy smoke!" again exclaimed his 
friend. 

"Let me see," said my chief, taking the 
paper in his hand. His eye immediately 
fell upon the editorial he had dictated. 
The blood fled from his cheeks, but sprang 
into his eyes. 

"You Judas; you blankety-blank scoun- 
drel," he exclaimed, shaking his fist in the 
other's face. 

"On my word as a gentleman, I am as 

innocent " . But our editor turned a 

deaf ear to his friend. 

"Gentleman! Innocent!" shrieked my 
chief. "You don't know the meaning of 



i68 The Tomboy at Work 

the words. You did that on purpose. 
You are a traitor, a cur " 

"My friend " 

"Don't call me friend, you coward; 
defend yourself!" And, with that, my 
chief raised his cane and charged upon 
his erstwhile friend. In the meantime, a 
crowd had gathered, and came in between 
the two editors. The cause of the trouble 
was soon discovered, and the Evening 
sold the biggest edition of its history. 

While his blood was up, my chief sought 
his editorial sanctum, and, divesting himself 
of coat and collar, sat down to write. 
There was no dictating now. His pen 
flew over the paper, and each sheet as it 
was finished was tossed in theatrical frenzy 
on the floor. 

"There, boy," he shouted to the "devil." 
"Take that to the foreman, and tell him 
to double-lead it for to-morrow morning's 
leader. I'll give him a taste of his own 
sauce with pepper added to suit my taste. 
Innocent! I'll swear that he sent in 



The Tomboy at Work 169 

word to have that copy set while he was 
drinking to our friendship. He'll wish 
he'd never been bom when he sees to- 
morrow's Register'' he hissed at me as he 
went down the stairs to drown his rage at 
his favourite bar. 

When I returned to the office, late in the 
evening, there was no one there but the 
other reporter. 

"Where is the chief?" I asked. 
"I took him to his hotel, and he is now 
sleeping it off in his own bed." 

" Do you think he'll be around to-night? " 
The reporter looked at me with a 
pitying look, as who should say, "Is that 
all you know of such things?" With the 
assurance of his expression, I went into 
the composing-room and took the editorial 
proofs off the hook. The two articles writ- 
ten eariier in the day on political subjects 
were all right. Then I came to the frenzied 
leader. It was terrible. My chief had a 
facile pen, and when he was angry his 
vocabulary was choice. Such sarcasm, 



I70 The Tomboy at Work 

such abuse, I never read. His once friend 
was called every name in the category of 
expletives. I went into the composing- 
room with the proof in my hand. 

"Mr. Gordon," said I to the foreman, 
"that editorial must not be published. 
The chief would be discharged the moment 
the stockholders saw it, and the paper 
disgraced." 

"I have no right to leave out what the 
editor has ordered in," replied the fore- 
man. 

"Neither have I, but I'm going to. I 
warn you, Mr. Gordon, that editorial 
must not appear." 

"It is late, and we have nothing to take 
its place." 

"Give me fifteen minutes and I'll fill 
the space." 

"You write the leader!" 

"Anything to save the day." 

I glanced hurriedly through the tele- 
graphic news to see what there was worth 
a leader. The political situation was 



The Tomboy at Work 171 

already covered. Happy thought! Make 
one of the chief's minor editorials a leader 
and fill the space with a social editorial. 
There was a rumour that the Prince of 
Wales, now the King of England, was to 
again visit America. I took that rumour 
for my theme, and extended a hearty 
welcome to His Royal Highness. In the 
name of the citizens of Newark, I invited 
him to pay us a visit when he came over, 
and enumerated some of the interesting 
things that we could show him in the 
manufacturing line. The editorial swelled 
with local pride. Indeed, the Prince's 
coming had been merely a peg on which to 
write compliments upon our enterprising 
and prosperous city. I rushed into the 
composing-room with the "copy" in my 
hand. 

"Here it is, Mr. Gordon. Rush it!" 

And he did. In less time than it took 

me to write it, the editorial was in type. 

I waited in the office until the first copies 

of the paper were ofif the press. Then I 



172 The Tomboy at Work 

went home, and slept Hke a top after the 
excitement. 

The next morning, when I arrived at the 
office, the chief was there. The moment 
I came into the room he sprang from his 
chair and grasped me by both hands. 

"You have saved me from being dis- 
graced and discharged," said he. 

"I hope you will pardon the liberty. I 
knew that you had been dri — that you 
were excited, and that you wrote in the 
heat of temper. If you had come back 
to the office, you would not have allowed 
that editorial to appear." 

"I'll do as much for you some day." 

"I hope you'll never have occa — that's 
very kind of you." 

That afternoon, the evening paper pub- 
lished an explanatory editorial, in which 
it said that it was all a joke, and that our 
editor was the most brilliant journalist in 
the State, and that the writer was proud to 
call him friend. I am told that the two 
editors parted that evening at Courtois's 



The Tomboy at Work 173 

caf^ with tears in their eyes, and every 
protestation of undying admiration and 
regard. As for my editorial, it called 
down loud praises on my c^^ief's head. 



CHAPTER XV 

I NEVER cared very much for Newark. 
There were some deHghtful people there, 
and I am pretty sure that we knew the most 
of them, but the place was not attractive. 
In the winter it was not so bad, but in 
summer it was dreadful. Such heat and 
such mosquitos I have never found any- 
where else. When my brothers were en- 
gaged in newspaper work there, they used 
to wrap their heads in shawls, and run 
through Lincoln Park at night as though 
wild animals were pursuing them. 

While we knew the nicest people in 
Newark, we did not pretend to go into 
society. My sisters were too young at 
first, and I had neither the time, the 
inclination, nor the money. At the same 
time, I enjoyed knowing people, and did 
not mind informal dinners and calls; but 
174 



The Tomboy at Work 175 

at big functions I never put in an appear- 
ance. Dixey enjoyed society, and was 
invited everywhere, and he went, too, 
though it was years before he owned a 
dress -coat. People lived more simply in 
those days, and a black sack-coat and 
white tie, while not quite the correct thing, 
could be worn at dinners and dances with- 
out calling forth unkind remarks. I should 
be sorry for the person who wore such a 
costume to-day. Dixey was very popular, 
not a bit self-conscious, and he had a good 
time. Later on, he had a proper dress- 
suit, made by a Newark tailor, which he 
wore with so much grace that it looked as 
if it might have been made by Poole. 

Fortunately, dress was not a matter of so 
much importance when I was a youngster 
as it is to-day. I always dressed plainly, 
because it seemed to me more appropriate 
for business purposes than lace and frills. 
I had my coats and skirts made by a 
tailor long before tailor-made clothes 
were the fashion, not because I affected 



176 The Tomboy at Work 

man's garb, but simply for its suitableness. 
To-day, lace and frills would attract more 
unfavourable comment in a business office 
than my plain clothes attracted years ago. 

It was no uncommon thing when I was 
young for a girl to have one "party dress" 
which she kept going through the winter, 
and no one remarked upon it. There were 
Flora McFHmseys then, to be sure, but they 
were not so plentiful as they are to-day. 

Not going to balls and routs threw us 
back upon the theatre and opera for our 
amusement, and I am not sure but that 
we had the best of it. Central Park 
Garden, with Theodore Thomas's orchestra, 
was the great summer attraction of New 
York, and I had the entree to it. Good 
old Jacob Gosche, Mr. Thomas's business 
manager, gave me a season's pass, which 
read, 

"Admit Miss Gilbert and friends." 

Note the plural, "and friends" — we used 
to go night after night, half a dozen 



The Tomboy at Work 177 

strong. There was plenty of room, for the 
garden was a big place. It was not a roof- 
garden, but a roofless garden, level with 
the street. Little tables were scattered 
around, and the audience sat at them, and 
sipped its beer to such music as only 
Chicago enjoys to-day. New York let 
Theodore Thomas, the best orchestral 
leader it ever had, go, and Chicago had the 
appreciation not only to take, but to keep 
him. We were introduced to Wagner's 
music at the Central Park Garden, and 
Theodore Thomas made the Wagner nights 
the most popular on his list. I had the 
temerity to write a long letter to Wagner, 
enclosing programmes of the Wagner 
nights, and telling him how well his music 
was given and how thoroughly it was 
appreciated. My family laughed at me, 
and said that I was very "cheeky," which 
I am quite sure now that I was, though I 
did not mean to be. In the course of 
time, an answer came from Bayreuth, 
thanking me for my letter. It was 



178 The Tomboy at Work 

written by Mme. Cosima, for she knew 
English and he did not, and it enclosed 
a photograph of the master, which "he 
pitied being so ugly," with his autograph 
on it. I was more or less vindicated by 
the receipt of this letter, but it did not 
remove the charge of ' * cheekiness." I think 
that was the first and last time that I 
yielded to the temptation to write a letter 
of that sort. 

I was very much surprised and pleased 
one day, at about this time, to receive a 
note from Miss Clara Louise Kellogg in- 
viting me to come over to her house in 
New York to hear a young girl, whom she 
had discovered in the West, sing. Miss 
Kellogg said that she knew I was interested 
in music, and she thought I would like to 
be in at the start of so fine a voice. I was 
on hand to the minute of the hour ap- 
pointed. The young girl was there too. 
She was small and, though plain of feature, 
had a pleasant expression, and was very 
vivacious. Her speaking voice was very 




Her high notes were her best." 



The Tomboy at Work 179 

nasal, and there was a slight nasal quality 
in her singing voice, but that did not 
affect its sweetness. She sang ballads and 
arias from popular operas with equal 
facility. Her high notes were her best, 
and it seemed to me that she had a great 
future. Miss Kellogg was enthusiastic 
about her, and helped her in many ways, 
as the girl herself told me. She was qtiite 
young and full of pluck. She studied 
hard, and made her debut under the most 
favourable auspices. After a more or less 
successful season, she lost her voice, and, 
though it came back later, it was never 
the same. While she never rose to the 
first rank of prime donne, Emma Abbott 
was very popular in English opera, and 
left a large fortune when she died. 

It was on account of Emma Abbott that 
I severed my connection with the Register. 
The "four hundred" of Newark society 
tendered her a complimentary concert at 
the beginning of her career, and I naturally 
expected to report it, as I was the "amuse- 



i8o The Tomboy at Work 

ment editor" of the paper, and had done 
much preHminary work in behalf of the 
concert. The affair was to be a great social 
as well as musical event, and I wanted 
to be there, as was my right. It seems, 
however, that tickets were scarce, and, 
owing to the social nature of the function, 
the son of one of our stockholders wanted 
to report it. 

I had invited my mother to go with me, 
and she, as well as I, was looking forward 
with more than usual interest to the oc- 
casion. I wondered why the tickets had 
not come to the office, and just before 
I went home to dinner I asked the chief 
whether he knew anything about them. 

"Yes," said he, "I do. I know every- 
thing about them, and it's a blankety- 
blank shame." 

" Haven't they been sent ? " 

"Yes, days ago, and Mr. (mention- 
ing the stockholder's name) gobbled them 
up for his son." 

"Does he know anything about music?" 



The Tomboy at Work i8i 

"Not a blankety thing. He couldn't 
tell 'Ninety and Nine' from 'Old Hun- 
dred.* It's just because it's going to be 
a swell occasion, and he wants to be 
there." 

"What am I expected to do?" I spoke 
calmly, but I was in a rage. 

"You are to report a church sociable in 
East Newark." 

"Oh, I am, am I! Well, I guess I'm 

not. Mr. 's son can report the 

sociable. I'm going to the Emma Abbott 
concert." 

The chief looked at me in surprise, as I 
sat down at my desk and wrote as fast 
as my pen could fly. 

"There," said I, handing him what I 
had written. "That is my resignation. 
You can present it to the stockholders to- 
night. I do not intend to submit to any 
such injustice. It is my right to report 
that concert, and I'm not going to be put 
upon by any stockholder that ever lived. 
I shall attend the performance with my 



i82 The Tomboy at Work 

mother, as I proposed doing, in spite of 
all the stockholders and all their sons." 

"Won't you reconsider your resigna- 
tion?" 

"I'll reconsider nothing. I've worked 
like a dog on this paper, and they want to 
send me over to East Newark so that their 
son can go to the Abbott concert on my 
tickets. Let them try to get some one else 
to do the work I've done for the same pay. 
I guess that'll keep them busy for a while. 
I'm sorry to leave the office. You've 
been a kind chief, and given me a chance 
to do all kinds of writing, but my mind's 
made up." I was angry and perhaps 
unwise, but nothing could have stopped 
me now. On my way out, I told the 
reporter. 

"It's an outrage," said he, "an out- 
rageous outrage — I'll resign, too. I've 
only wanted a chance." So he walked 
into the chief's office and resigned then 
and there. He gave as his reason that 
he could not stay on a paper that had 



The Tomboy at Work 183 

been so mean to a woman. I was sorry 
for the chief. The fault was not his. 
It was mean to leave him in the lurch, 
but there really was no more to do that 
night. We, the staff, had scarcely left 
the office before he hurried to the compos- 
ing-room, and took the foreman to the 
nearest bar to talk it over. 

On my way home, I stopped at the 
house of one of the ladies most active on 
the concert committee and told her what 
had happened. She was indignant, and 
gave me two of the best seats in the house. 
My mother and I went, and enjoyed the 
concert to the full. Not the least of my 
pleasure was in looking back from my 
seat, near the front, at the stockholder's 
son, whose press seats were down by the 
door. 



CHAPTER XVI 

After the excitements of the concert 
were over, and I sat down to weigh matters 
in the cold Hght of day, I wondered whether 
I had not been rash. I had thrown down 
a salary, a small one to be sure, but it 
was something to count upon, and I had 
nothing to take its place. However, I 
was an optimist then, as I am an optimist 
now. Perhaps, if I had occasionally been 
a pessimist, it would have been better for 
me, but it is hard to change one's nature. 

As luck would have it, I was recom- 
mended just at this time for the position 
of New York correspondent for a Boston 
weekly at $5 per letter. Not much, but 
it did not take me more than an hour to 
write it, and the topics were to my liking. 
That was a step in the right direction, but 
another backward step came along just 
184 



The Tomboy at Work 185 

at this time. There was a,n important 
election on, and I sent my report to the 
Forum, as usual. To my horror, in 
taking up the paper in the morning, not 
a word about it was there. I rushed over 
to New York to see what had happened. 
To my great relief, I found that I had not 
been at fault. The city editor had re- 
ceived the envelope containing my report, 
but, instead of turning it over at once to 
the copy-reader, he laid it on his desk, 
where other things were piled upon it, and 
it was forgotten. 

I went back to Newark breathing freely. 
The next day, to my chagrin and disgust, 
I received a letter from the managing 
editor, saying in substance that my 
services were no longer required. He 
admitted that the failure of the election 
returns to appear was not my fault, but 
he thought it much better for the Forum 
to be represented by a man. I had 
served it well, and as only my initials 
were used, he did not suspect my sex. 



i86 The Tomboy at Work 

the work being so satisfactorily done; 
but now that he knew that their Newark 
reporter was a woman, he would always 
be anxious about the news. 

I was indignant, and considered myself 
badly used, as I certainly was. If I had 
done my duty by the paper for two years, 
or more, there was no reason to suppose 
that I would not continue to do it. How- 
ever, there was no appeal, and I began to 
feel that the earth was slipping from 
under my feet. I kept up a bold front at 
home, and was cheered by my mother's 
confidence in me. 

I thought over the situation carefully, 
and decided that I had better make New 
York my field, and, if possible, bend all 
my energies in one direction. To this 
end, I called upon Miss Kate Field, then 
the best - known and most successful 
woman journalist in America. When she 
stayed at our house in Newark, she had 
been good enough to express an interest 
in my career. I found her then and 



The Tomboy at Work 187 

always the soul of kindness. She listened 
to my tale of woe with sympathetic ears. 

"I cannot help you, so far as the Forum 
is concerned, for certain reasons, but I 

will give you a letter to Mr. ," said 

she, naming the proprietor of the most 
famous newspaper in America. This she 
did at once, and I enclosed it in a letter 
asking for an interview, as the proprietor 
was, by fortunate chance, then in New 
York. By return mail, I had a short note 
from this distinguished personage, naming 
a day and an hour when he could see me. 
I was there on time, you may be sure. 
The interview was short. 

**Well," said he, regarding me with 
piercing eyes. "What do you want to 
do?" 

"I should like book-reviewing, or any- 
thing that comes to hand." 

"You can do the books, if you like," 
said he, "but be original; don't give us the 
same old cut-and-dried stuff. Your salary 
will be $30 a week — good morning!" 



i88 The Tomboy at Work 

My impulse was to drop on my knees 
and kiss his hand — a strong, shapely one, 
by the way — but I restrained myself, and 
merely said "Thank you." 

Back I flew to Miss Field and reported 
the interview. 

"Good!" said she. 

"But how am I to do original book 
reviews?" I asked rather hopelessly. 

She thought for a while and then said: 
"Do them in dialogue form. Have the 
family sit around and discuss them, ex- 
pressing various views." 

The idea seemed a capital one, and I 
acted upon it. I had a family take up 
the books of the day and discuss them, 
giving various opinions; the sons and 
daughters maintaining a point that was 
immediately bowled over by the father. 
My "Chats About Books" became a 
popular feature of the paper. Publishers 
offered to put them into book form, and 
they attained the importance of being 
burlesqued by the inimitable Nym Crinkle. 



The Tomboy at Work 189 

He called his burlesque "The Drivel 
Family," and I am sure that it was well 
named. 

Besides book-reviewing, I was finally 
promoted to the position of music and 
dramatic editor, which I held for several 
years. I did not consider myself a critic, 
so I merely gave my opinions for what 
they were worth, and then reported the 
effect of the opera or the play upon the 
audience. 

At about this time, the Lydia Thompson 
blondes revisited this country. There was 
a young woman in a subordinate part who 
attracted my attention by her beauty and 
talent. I mentioned her once or twice, 
and I heard afterward that some one said, 
*'0f course, she got good notices in the 

, for the man was mashed on 

her." That shows you what gossip is 
worth. I never saw the girl off the stage, 
and never cared to, for my interest in her 
began and ended at the footlights. 

It was a rule of the that its dramatic 



190 The Tomboy at Work 

critics must not know stage people, but 
it was a very difficult rule to live up to. 
The stage people cultivated the dramatic 
critic with an assiduity that was hardly 
to be resisted. I believe in the rule, 
however, for I have always found it 
difficult to write critically of my friends. 
Not for want of seeing their faults, but the 
difficulty was to put friendship so far aside 
that I could speak of them in public. 

Though connected with the , I 

continued to Hve in Newark. I usually 
took a midnight train home, but, as I did 
not have to report at the office till noon, 
this was not so great a hardship. Don't 
suppose for a moment that I went to bed 
as soon as I reached my room. Alas, no ! 
I was bitten by the mania for play -writing. 
From one to three o'clock I worked on a 
comedy, then I went to bed, not to sleep 
till nine or ten. Oh, no ! I had a brother 
who found it hard to arouse himself in 
time to get to work. His business was in 
New York, and his train left Newark at 



The Tomboy at Work 191 

half-past seven. I took it upon myself to 
call him at six. At first, I used to go to 
his door and knock; then I would go back 
to my bed. I found that this roused me 
more than it did him. I would go back 
to bed, and not be able to go to sleep again, 
while he turned over and slept till long 
after train time. Finally, it occurred to 
me to rig up a bell over his bed, with a 
cord over mine. At six, sharp, I would 
wake, and pull that bell-cord till he knocked 
on my door to prove that he was up. 
Then I turned over and went to sleep, 
while he got up and caught the train. 
Poor fellow, he used to have terrible night- 
mares. I remember one night we all 
gathered at his bedside and found him 
sitting up with eyes wide open and an 
expression of horror on his face. It was 
impossible to wake him. 

"What's the matter, Robin?" we re- 
peated. 

"I can't eat them," he cried; "I can't 
eat them!" 



192 The Tomboy at Work 

"Eat what?" 

"Those clothes-pins — they have fur on 
them!" 

Sandy, who had a very kind and reas- 
suring manner, said, "Never mind, Robin; 
I've taken the fur off — you can eat them 
now." 

The expression of horror left Robin's 
face, and he turned over, and slept peace- 
fully till he heard the bell ring over his 
head. 

Notwithstanding these interruptions, I 
managed to finish my play. A friend of 
ours in Newark happened to know the 
manager of a Philadelphia theatre where 
a good stock company was playing, and I 
asked him if he would send it on. This he 
very kindly did, and, much to his surprise, 
though not to mine, for I had the amateur's 
confidence in my work, it was accepted. 



CHAPTER XVII 

It is said that Victorien Sardou was 
detained over night once in a French 
provincial city, and seeing a theatre 
open, bought a seat and went in. There 
was something familiar about the play, 
but it was not until the third act that he 
recognised it as his own. This was not 
unlike the experience I had while attend- 
ing the rehearsals of my play in Phila- 
delphia, for which purpose the gave 

me a week off. I could hardly recognise 
my own words, and there was no suggestion 
of their meaning conveyed. I was not 
asked to make any remarks, for, being a 
green playwright, I was not supposed to 
know anything. I did not know much — 
that I admit — ^but I did know what I 
mieant, which was more than can be said 
of the company that spoke my words. 
193 



194 The Tomboy at Work 

However, I was more than lucky to have 
my first play accepted and produced at a 
first-class theatre. 

I hope that the Philadelphia editors of 
that day forgave me for my greenness. I 
can scarcely believe it now, but I actually 
had the bad taste to call on each one in 
turn before my play was produced, which, 
if they had not been a most amiable 
lot of men, and set down to youth 
what looked like unbridled assurance, 
would have meant destruction to my play 
and to me. 

On the evening of the first performance 
I occupied a box with my family, and sat 
modestly on the edge of a chair at the 
back. I sat on the edge of the chair 
so that I could come quickly to the front 
in case there was, as there was sure to be, 
a call for "author." I knew that I could 
not make a speech, but I could make 
a bow, and smile to any extent. Indeed, 
I had practiced bowing over a stair- 
raiUng so that I should not be awkward 



The Tomboy at Work 195 

or pitch out, if called upon to bow over 
the railing of my box. 

There was not a very large audience, 
but that, I thought, was because I was 
still an unknown quantity in the play- 
writing world. The next night there 
was sure to be a packed house. How I 
watched that audience. When it laughed 
I loved it; when it wept, I almost wept 
with it. 

During the performance, I received 
several telegrams of congratulation, and 
one from a woman in Brooklyn, asking me 
what I would charge to make her a new 
dramatisation of East Lynne! It was 
well that those congratulatory telegrams 
came before the performance was over. 
They never would have been sent had the 
truth been known. At the end of the play 
I listened eagerly for calls for "author." 
Sandy said he was sure that he heard some 
one down by the door shout "author," and 
he wanted me to go to the front of the box 
and bow. If I had, I should have bowed 



196 The Tomboy at Work 

to the backs of the audience. I don't 
think I ever saw an audience in such a 
hurry to leave a theatre. If some one 
had cried "fire," it could not have got out 
quicker, or have been more relieved upon 
reaching the street. 

The manager came to the box to speak 
with me after the performance. He did 
not say much, only that he thought the 
play might be improved by changing the 
ending of the acts, cutting out some 
dialogue here, adding "snappier" lines 
there, getting in more action, and strength- 
ening the love interest. 

"Perhaps it might be better to wait 
until we see the morning papers," I said, 
not without intention, "and get their 
suggestions for changes as well, so that 
they can all be made at the same time." 
To this he readily agreed. 

In the lobby of the theatre I met an old 
friend of the family. He had been a good 
deal of a theatre-goer in his youth, but 
seldom went in his old age. His opinion 



The Tomboy at Work 197 

would undoubtedly be of value, and I 
was anxious to get it. 

"I wouldn't have sat out the play if it 
had not been yours," said he. "There 
really is nothing new in it. I've seen 
twenty like it. Why didn't you get some 
one to help you — some one who knows 
something about the stage. Of course, 
for a first play, by a person with no 
knowledge of the business, it was not so 
bad. Indeed, I can imagine a worse 
play, but I wouldn't care to see one. It 
may succeed, however; the poorer a play, 
you know, the better its chances of success. 
The public nowadays knows nothing about 
the real drama, and cares less. Good 
night. You have my best wishes." 

His best wishes! Well, that was some- 
thing ! 

I did not go to bed in a very happy state 
of mind, and lay awake most of the night 
in expectation of the notices in the morning 
papers. They were all bad — not slashingly 
bad, but such faint praise that the damning 



iqS The Tomboy at Work 

was all the greater. The only paper that 
praised the play was one of which the man- 
aging editor was an old friend. He was 
obliged to go out of town, and did not see it 
— that was his good fortune — ^but he left 
word with his dramatic critic to praise the 
play no matter how bad it was. I heard this 
story from his wife, who told it to illustrate 
how kind-hearted her husband was, so the 
little consolation I might have had from 
one notice was torn from me. 

The , my own paper in New York, 

had a special despatch about the play, 
which it described as a succes d'estime! 
This was letting me down easy. 

My arrangement with the manager was 
that I should share the profits after 
expenses. The play was kept on for a 
week, and there were expenses, but there 
were no profits. 

I felt rather discouraged about plays 
after this, and wrote to the Brooklyn 
woman that I had no time to make a 
new dramatisation of East Lynne. 



The Tomboy at Work 199 

I should have given plays the go-by 
for a while, if a friend on the stage had not 
encouraged me to keep going. She was 
always intending to "star," and to that 
end needed a play. I must have written 
half a dozen for her to choose from. She 
took them all, but produced none, which 
shows that she was a wise woman. She 
did, however, succeed in disposing of one 
to another actress, who ''starred" in it 
with some success. Just what success I 
was never quite able to determine, as she 
waived the formality of payments. 

Finally, my friend prevailed upon her 
husband to get me to make a play for him 
out of a then popular novel. He was a 
most successful "star," so I considered 
my fortune made when he produced the 
play with great eclat in a western city. 
How the papers "roasted" the actor and 
the play! He took it off, put one of his 
old successes on, and sent the manuscript 
back to me to rewrite. He liked the part, 
and he was determined to play it. Nothing 



200 The Tomboy at Work 

could have been less suited to his undoubted 
talents; that is why he liked it. I took 
the manuscript and worked over it in the 
still and midnight hours. It was no use. 
I only made things worse. Then I called 
in an expert, and he made them worse than 
I had, and charged me a thousand dollars 
for doing so. The star agreed with me 
that the expert's work was worse than 
mine, so he shelved the play. I have the 
play -bill and his photograph in the part ; as 
they cost me a thousand dollars, they are, 
up to this date, the most expensive wall- 
decoration that I own. They hang before 
me as I write. I have some other play- 
bills neatly framed, but they cost the 
"stars" who produced the plays more 
than they did me. 

The trouble was that I had more op- 
portunity than talent in those days. 
Now I have more talent than opportunity, 
but that is another story. Perhaps, if 
I had stuck to play -writing, I might have 
made a success of it, but I had other things 



The Tomboy at Work 201 

to do that had to be done, and I couid not 
afford the luxury of experimenting. 

The play-writing microbe is a terrible 
one, and the sooner it is got rid of the 
better. I could write a book about my 
play-writing experiences, but I won't. 



CHAPTER XVIII 

We were still living in Newark, and still 
entertaining the interesting people who 
visited that city from time to time. 

Dixey and I were walking down Cort- 
landt Street to the ferry one day, when 
he said, "The person of all others whom 
you would most like to see is coming to 
New York. I'll give you one guess." 

"Bret Harte," said I, without hesitating. 

"Right you are," said he; "and he is 
coming out to Newark, and will stay over 
night with us." 

Bret Harte was the brightest star in the 
literary firmament at that time. His 
first book, "The Luck of Roaring Camp, 
and Other Stories," had just been published, 
and he was the literary excitement of the 
hour. His breezy Western style, his 
humour, his pathos, his virility, held us 

202 




In his long ulster and peaked astrachan cap. 



The Tomboy at Work 203 

spellbound. We were all eager to know 
what he was like, and we soon found out. 
He came East to lecture, and when he 
lectured in Newark he stayed with us. 
He was all the most exacting hero -wor- 
shipper could have asked. I see him now 
in his long ulster, with a peaked astrachan 
fur cap set jauntily on the side of his head, 
as was the fashion of the day. He enter- 
tained us with anecdote at dinner, and, 
after the lecture, we sat up late into the 
night listening to his stories of the West. 
He was simple in his manner and perfectly 
unspoiled. 

Kate Redmond, who was visiting us at 
the time, thought she would "get a rise out 
of him," as it is called, by confusing him 
with John Hay. 

"I have read all your poems, Mr. 
Harte," said she, "and I don't think that 
you have ever written anything better 
than 'Jim Bludso.'" 

"You are quite right," answered Mr. 
Harte; "I never have." 



204 The Tomboy at Work 

Then we fell to talking of the young men 
who were just beginning to be heard from 
in the literary world. Among them John 
Hay. 

"Do you know him?" asked Kate 
Redmond. 

"Very well, indeed," answered Mr. 
Harte. 

"Do describe him." 

Mr. Harte obUged her with the de- 
scription. 

"I had an idea that he was a small 
man," said Kate 

"You must have judged him by his 
'Little Breeches,' " replied Mr. Harte, quick 
as a flash. 

After Mr. Harte left, he sent my mother 
a handsome coffee-cup of rare Chinese 
ware, which he suggested she should call 
"the lecturer's cup." We prized it so 
highly that we never used it, even for 
lecturers. I have it now in a cabinet, 
where I keep my best bits of china. To 
me he sent a copy of "A Week in a 



The Tomboy at Work 205 

French Country House," which he said 
was one of his favourites among novels, 
and wrote on the paper cover, "For 
Gilbert's Circulating Library." I kept 
that book for years, till it was worn 
out with reading. I am afraid that it has 
been lost in many movings since that day. 
I still have, however, the copy of the 
first edition of "The Luck of Roaring 
Camp " that he gave me. It lies faded and 
worn before me. On a fly-leaf is a photo- 
graph of the author that I pasted there at 
the time. On the leaf opposite, the book is 
inscribed to me. In Mr. Harte's neat 
chirography are these lines: 

". . . Good-looking and debonaire, 
Smarter than Jersey lightning — There! 
That's her photograph, done with care." 

It was a quotation from one of his 
own poems. The line in the original is 
"Rich, good-looking and debonaire." For 
obvious reasons he left out the "rich"; 
for equally obvious reasons he might 



2o6 The Tomboy at Work 

have left out the "good-looking," but Bret 
Harte was always a gallant gentleman. 

Things were improving with us, but 
we were far from rich. That we were 
able to pay our bills and have something 
for the cat was a great comfort to us. 
That saying, "something for the cat," we 
got from a poor clergyman, whose children's 
appetites were greater than his ability to 
satisfy them. Many a time I have seen 
the good rector look over his table after a 
meal, and, shaking his head, sadly murmur, 
"Nothing for the cat!" The expression 
got to be a by -word in our family, as did 
that of "nibble cheese," derived from 
the same source. Smilingly, he would put 
a small bit of cheese on the table, and say 
to his children, "This is nibble cheese, 
my dears." They knew by that that 
they were not expected to eat much, and 
they didn't, because there was not much 
to eat. 

A new magazine, with a large capital and 
shrewd business management behind it. 



The Tomboy at Work 207 

had been raised from the ashes of the old 
one that Dixey was editing. A well- 
known and popular author had been 
made editor, and Dixey, on an enlarged 
salary, was his assistant. Sandy, who 
had not been doing much of anything since 
the war, was busy painting portraits on 
porcelain. They were not exactly minia- 
tures, for their foundation was photography. 
They were quite fashionable in Newark, 
and Sandy did a good business among the 
rich and great. He had some queer orders 
in the course of his business; one was 
from a man whose wife had died, and who, 
having no likeness of her, had had her 
photograph taken after she was in her 
coffin. He brought it to Sandy and asked 
him to colour it. 

"I don't know just what to do with the 
coffin," said Sandy. "I can't very well 
paint it out," said he, "for it is so dark 
that it would show through the paint." 

The husband looked disappointed for a 
moment; then his face brightened, and he 



2o8 The Tomboy at Work 

said, coaxingly, "Why can't you make 
it like she was in an opera-box?'* 

Sandy tried to excuse himself, but the 
man was so much in earnest, and seemed so 
disappointed at the thought of not getting 
it, that he consented. I saw the picture 
when it was finished. It was cleverly 
managed, but to me most gruesome. The 
bereaved husband, however, was delighted. 

Another queer order came to Sandy 
from a poor coloured woman. She said 
she could not pay more than a quarter, 
but she would like to have her husband's 
photograph painted. Couldn't he make 
the cheeks red, and make him "ginger- 
bread instead of black nigger." Sandy 
took the order, but not the quarter. 
The widow was more than pleased, and, 
adding a quarter to the one Sandy did not 
take, she bought a frame made of shells 
for her treasure. 

Whenever we could, Dixey and I took 
our luncheon in New York together. At 
first we patronised a fifteen-cent table 



The Tomboy at Work 209 

d'hote in Eighth Street; that paUing on 
our appetites in the course of time, we 
went to Seighortner's, in those days one 
of the best restaurants in New York. 
When we first went to it, it was at the 
south end of Lafayette Place, but later 
it moved up to the old Astor homestead, 
on the same street. The hon-vivants of 
New York knew Seighortner's well. It 
was there that Sir Henry Irving was 
introduced to canvasback and terrapin 
at a dinner given to him by the late 
Colonel Bucke, editor of The Spirit of the 
Times. Dixey and I did not go in for 
either of these two dishes. Our standing 
order was "pea soup and a French kiss." 
Bread and butter were served with the 
soup, which was not only delicious but 
" filling at the price." One bowl made 
enough for two, and one "kiss" also was 
enough for two. The service at Seighort- 
ner's was perfect, and I must say for the 
proprietor that he treated us with as much 
deference as he did years later when our 



210 The Tomboy at Work 

orders were more flattering to his cuisine. 
The place has gone now, but every old 
New Yorker who cared for good eating will 
remember it with pleasure. There is no 
face that comes before me more vividly 
than that of the old Swiss restaurateur, 
with its keen grey e3^es and stereotyped 
smile. He would always take your order 
himself when it was possible. As he 
told off the delicacies on his bill of fare, 
he would kiss his finger-tips to the rarest 
dishes, and, when he gave your order, you 
could hear him give your name down the 
speaking-tube to the chef. This little 
personal touch made you feel that you 
were going to have particular attention, and 
it flattered you — at least, it flattered me. 
One day, when I was sipping my pea- 
soup at Seighortner's, Dixey told me that 
he had invited one of his magazine's' 
most distinguished contributors, the Rev. 
Dr. George MacDonald, then lecturing in 
this country, to spend Christmas with us. 
I nearly choked. There were Dr. Mac- 



The Tomboy at Work 211 

Donald, his wife and oldest son. It would 
be lovely to have them, but where in the 
world were we going to put them. Every bed- 
room in the house was full of the family. 
** We can double up," said Dixey cheerfully. 

** Double up! If we triple up, we can't 
do it." 

"Nonsense. Leave it to me." 

"It is impossible." 

"It can't be impossible, for I've asked 
them, and they have accepted." 

"Well, then there's nothing to do but 
to make them as comfortable as we can, 
and have a good time." 

I don't remember just how we did it, 
but we got them in without much incon- 
venience, and we had a memorable time. 
George MacDonald was one of the most 
attractive, lovable men I ever met in my 
life, and we were sorry when they left us. 

On the night of their arrival, we retired 
after they had, and, as we passed their 
doors, to our horror we saw their boots 
ranged outside. We kept no man-servant. 



212 The Tomboy at Work 

so here was a dilemma. Which of its 
horns were we to seize? 



CHAPTER XIX 

There were other things besides editing 
that were interesting Dixey at this time. 
He was thinking about getting married, 
and the more he thought the more he 
decided to. He had met many attractive 
girls in the course of his social career, 
but, strange to say, he had never thought 
of marrying until this particular one 
appeared upon the scene. 

After Dixey's marriage, I decided to 
move to New York. My mother agreed 
with me that it would be the best thing to 
do for many reasons, and the girls were 
enchanted, for New York was an earthly 
paradise to them. I wanted to cut down 
the size of the family, and so decided 
that to take a small flat would be the best 
way to accomplish the desired end. 

One did not have the choice of flats 
213 



214 The Tomboy at Work 

then that one has to-day — and I was 
beginning to feel rather discouraged, when 
I came upon just the thing I wanted, in 
just the situation I wanted, and for just 
the price I could afford to pay. It was 
on Eighteenth Street, east of Irving Place, 
and at the time I picked it out it was still 
imfinished, but I could wait for a thing so 
well worth waiting for. The house was 
owned by one of the largest estates in 
New York, and the agent, a most obliging 
man, allowed me to choose, not only the 
wall-paper, but gas-fixtures and the tiles 
for the fireplace. I chose the simplest 
gas-fixtures I could find, and reproductions 
of old Dutch blue-and-white scriptural 
tiles, and when the place was ready for 
occupancy it was most attractive. 

It was really too small for either our 
family or our furniture, but that did not 
disturb me for a moment. There was no 
room for Rufus, who was a full-grown 
man now, nor was there any room for a 
servant. But the former took a room 



The Tomboy at Work 215 

opposite and the latter had not materialised 
yet, so there was time to think over the 
matter of her disposal. 

We managed to get my mother's four- 
post bedstead in her room, and that 
about filled it. My room was only seven 
by ten feet, but I got a bed, a bureau, 
and a big old-fashioned desk in it. The 
rooms were all light, and gave out to the 
sun and air, so, even if they were small, 
they were not stuffy. We were up three 
flights, and there was no elevator, but 
we did not mind that, as the apartment 
was so light and airy; we were young, and 
it was New York. 

As I have said, the rooms were small, 
and our furniture was large. I could sit 
at my place at the dining-room table and 
shut either of the doors with a stick of 
French bread, and I could tilt back in my 
chair and reach anything off the side- 
board. It was certainly a convenient, 
if not elegant, arrangement. 

As far as my work was concerned, the 



2i6 The Tomboy at Work 

relief of being in New York was great. I 
was now doing the theatres almost ex- 
clusively, and the managing editor was 
good enough to let me write my copy at 
home and send it down by messenger. 
There were times, however, when I had 
to go to the office after the theatre, and I 
was often there very late — till long after 
midnight. Sometimes I wrote my "story " 
at home and took it down myself, being 
afraid to trust a messenger when there 
was a special hurry on account of the 
lateness of the hour. I went up and down 
by the Third Avenue horse-cars : the 
elevated road was not built then, and it 
was long before electricity. 

The patrons of this line after mid- 
night were not a very reassuring lot 
of people, so I carried a pistol in my 
coat pocket in case of necessity. It 
is just as well that the necessity for 
using it did not arise, for it was little 
more than a toy, being only for one 
cartridge, and that a tiny one. However, 



The Tomboy at Work 217 

it made me feel quite safe, and that was 
the main thing. 

I used to go all over New York late 
at night, and never once was I spoken to 
or annoyed in any way. I would not do 
the same thing now, for either the city 
has grown wickeder or I have grown wiser. 
It was while I was the "dramatic critic" 

of the that Mme. Modjeska made her 

first appearance in New York. Fanny 

Davenport's first appearance as Rosalind, 

in "As You Like It," was booked for the 

same night, and as she was an old favourite 

and Modjeska an unknown quantity I was 

sent to " do " the former. Miss Davenport 

played at Booth's Theatre, at the corner 

of Sixth Avenue and 23d Street, and 

Mme. Modjeska at Daly's, now Proctor's. 

Between the acts of "As You Like It," I 

dashed up to Daly's to see the new PoHsh 

actress. I sat in the box with Clara 

Morris and the late Dion Boucicault, both 

of whom were most enthusiastic over the 

acting of Modjeska. I was carried off my 



2i8 The Tomboy at Work 

feet by it, and lamented the fate that 
called me away. Seeing Modjeska was an 
appetite that grew with what it fed 
upon, and during that season I saw her 
twenty times in "La Dame aux Camelias," 
a performance in which, to my mind, she 
had no peer, and I have seen all of the 
famous ones from Matilda Heron to 
Eleanora Duse. 

My work on the was not all that I 

did. I wrote out-of-town letters, six a 
week, and on every possible subject. They 
were not syndicate letters, as they would 
be nowadays, and they were not type- 
written. I wrote each one with my own 
pen, and was paid ten dollars apiece for 
them. I began with one paper at five 
dollars a week, but, as my letters became 
an institution of the paper, I was raised 
later to ten. The proprietor of the paper 
was in New York, and when he called 
upon me to discuss future subjects I told 
him that I wanted ten dollars a week. 

"That is a jump of a hundred per cent.," 



The Tomboy at Work 219 

said he, staggered at my audacity, for 
the five-dollar rate had been in force for 
ten years. "Can't you make it seven- 
fifty?" 

I was firm — ten, or a rival journal, 
whose letter offering that much I showed 
him — so ten it was. 

Unfortunately, perhaps, I wrote my 
six letters over six different pen-names. 
I don't know why I started in with a pen- 
name, unless it was because of George 
Sand and George Eliot. I did not call 
myself George anything, I am happy to 
say. To have used my own name would 
have been better business. I know that 
now, but I liked the idea of anonymity 
then. 

A few years ago, when the Boston 
Ancient and Honourable Artillery Company- 
was in London, I happened to mention to 
one of the members, with whom I fell 
into conversation in the courtyard of the 
Hotel Cecil, that I had written for many- 
years for the Boston over the name 



220 The Tomboy at Work 

of, let us say, "Brunswick." Meeting 
with royalty was nothing to this man 
compared with meeting the correspondent 
whose letters he had read for so many- 
years. 

"I want to know?" said he, expressing 
geniiine Yankee surprise, and he shook 
my hand with a fervour that drove my 
rings into the bone. In half an hour, every 
Ancient and Honourable in the court- 
yard had been told the wondrous tale, 
and for the time being London and its 
glories were forgotten. I cite this incident 
merely to show that my letters were not 
unpopular, and that I had right on my 
side when I struck for higher pay. 

I have no file of those letters, and I'm 
glad of it, for I doubt whether seeing them 
in the cold light of mature years would 
thrill me as their recollection thrilled the 
Ancient and Honourable Company. 



CHAPTER XX 

As I said early in the previous chapter, 
our flat was a small one, and we wanted a 
small servant to fit it. A large woman 
would be under our feet all the time, and 
she would have been in her own way in 
the tiny kitchen. We tried assorted sizes, 
but, until we found Hannah, none suited. 

Every one who knew us knew Hannah. 
She was as much a part of the family as 
those who had been born into it, for she 
lived with us, off and on, for eighteen years. 
She was one of the unexpected things that 
so often happen. Nothing could have 
been further from our minds than finding 
Hannah, when we found her. We picked 
her up in the street; at least, my sister 
Marty did. We were walking through 
1 8th Street, and near Irving Place Marty 
called my attention to a little darky in 

221 



222 The Tomboy at Work 

front of her. At first we thought the 
figure that of a child; then we noticed the 
length of her skirts, though they did not 
touch the ground, and we saw that she was 
a woman. 

When the little woman reached the cross- 
ing, she lifted her skirts with both hands, 
notwithstanding their shortness, and picked 
her way daintily over the cobblestones 
(now asphalt). 

"There's a woman after my own heart," 
said Marty. "If she were not neat, she 
would not be so careful to keep her skirts 
clear of the mud. I wonder whether she 
wants a place?" 

"The best way to find out is to ask," I 
replied truthfully. My sister quickened 
her pace, and caught up with the Httle 
creature, who dropped the prettiest cour- 
tesy you ever saw. 

"Do you know of any coloured woman 
of about your size who wants to do light 
housework in a flat?" Marty asked. 

"/ do, missy," replied the woman, 




Hannah 



'S'AC'7l.*>w> 



The Tomboy at Work 223 

dropping another courtesy, which com- 
pletely won our hearts. It was arranged 
then and there, on the comer of i8th 
Street and Irving Place, that Hannah was 
to come to us on the morrow. She had 
never "lived out" in the North, but she 
referred to the "intelligent lady" at whose 
office she had registered, and she said that 
she could bring letters from people she had 
lived with for many years in the South. 

The next day she came and took pos- 
session of the tiny kitchen. Cook and 
kitchen were well matched in size. Hannah 
had hardly set about her work before we 
were congratulating ourselves upon a 
"find." The first thing she did was to 
wind a yellow-and-red bandanna around 
her head and tie over her calico dress 
a big white apron that completely en- 
veloped it. We looked at each other, and 
smiled the smile of contentment. 

Hannah was not more than five feet 
tall (almost what she called a "gwarf "), 
and small-boned. Her skin was of a 



224 The Tomboy at Work 

dark, rich brown that set off her even, 
white teeth to the best advantage, and 
she had a most engaging expression. Her 
last name was Street, she told us; or 
rather that was the name of her master, 
when she was a slave in the South; the 
war had not been over very long then. 
The fact that she had been a slave lent a 
romantic interest to Hannah. After she 
had lived with us for some time, she con- 
fided to us that her parents had been caught 
wild in Africa, and that she was born only 
a few weeks after they were sold to a 
planter in the South. It thrilled us to 
think that our Hannah was virtually a 
savage. Who knew but that she was a 
Zulu princess? And there she was, work- 
ing in our kitchen like any ordinary 
New York darky. 

No — I take that back; no ordinary 
servant, black or white, worked as Hannah 
did. She was not only exquisitely neat 
in her person, but she was neatness itself 
about her work. She never touched food 



The Tomboy at Work 225 

without first washing her hands, and the 
way she washed dishes made that homely 
and despised function a fine art. She 
scraped the dishes carefully first, then she 
let the hot water from the faucet run over 
them, to "wrench off the wust," she said; 
then she put them in a pan of boiling soap- 
suds, and washed them with a cloth, then 
into another pan of boiling water, then 
she set them on a wire basket to "dreen"; 
after which she wiped them on the most 
immaculate of towels. The silver and 
glass were washed separately, and dried 
on their own towels. Others will tell you 
that they do this, but they don't. Such 
cleanliness would have made us love 
Hannah even if she had not been a rare 
good cook. We should have been willing 
to forego delicacies just to have her wash 
dishes. 

Though she may have been born a 
savage, she was also born a cook. No one 
ever cooked her specialties with her skill. 
She gave us a reputation for good eating 



226 The Tomboy at Work 

that we had never enjoyed before. Our 
Sunday breakfasts were the talk of our 
friends. They were called for twelve, 
noon, but my friend, the prima donna, 
who always arrived an hour or two late 
(she is distinguished in two continents for 
her unpunctuality ) , never found anything 
spoiled through waiting. We marvelled 
how Hannah did it, but she would not 
reveal the secret. I fancy, however, that 
she knew the prima donna's ways, and 
had the breakfast ready for the hour she 
came rather than for the hour she said she 
would come. 

Hannah was so small and so amusing 
that we made a pet of her, and might have 
spoiled her had she not been so simple- 
minded and genuine. She never presumed 
in the least, and to the end kept up her 
little courtesy and her respectful manners. 
Our friends made as much of her as we 
did, and felt quite free to accept her invita- 
tions to dinner even when they were not 
accompanied by a word from us. It was 



The Tomboy at Work 237 

no unusual thing for me to come home in 
the evening and find an unexpected dinner- 
party on. Hannah neglected no detail 
of table service, from silver to flowers; 
everything was as it should be. If she, 
for reasons of her own, suspected that 
Rufus, the only one of my brothers living 
at home now, was a bit more interested in 
one of the young ladies present than in 
another, this one she would honour with 
a seat at his right hand and the biggest 
bunch of flowers. It was also her pleasure 
to make cakes of the most enticing sort 
and leave them at the doors of these young 
ladies with her respectful compliments. 
In one instance, it became quite embar- 
rassing, and I induced Hannah to dis- 
continue her gifts only by telling her that 
the young lady had in the house an alligator 
that had been sent from Florida. Hannah 
had a superstitious dread of reptiles, and 
imagined that this little creature was a 
full-sized ' * man-eater. ' ' 

"I heerd it slidin' down the front stairs," 



228 The Tomboy at Work 

she said. "No one don't ketch me goin' 
there agin. It might jump out at me 
when the do* was opened." 

Curiously enough, considering her race, 
Hannah did not care for coloured people. 

"I ain't got no use fer niggers, specially 
gingerbreads," she used to say; but let 
any one else speak of "niggers" in her 
presence, and she was furious. She pre- 
ferred those of her race who were, as she 
described them, "black as the ace of 
space." Her devoted friends were mostly 
white people. From babies to brides, she 
adored them. Her regular Saturday after- 
noon diversion, in later years, was to 
gather together my little nieces and 
nephews and all their friends and take 
them out to Central Park, where she would 
hire a carriage and drive them around to 
see all the objects of interest. 

There was no use in trying to make 
her take money from us for these 
occasions. It cut her to the heart 
if we suggested it, so we had to 



The Tomboy at Work 229 

make it up at Christmas, or at other 
times. 

The **Zoo" was Hannah's special de- 
Hght. One day she came back from an 
excursion to the park, her face radiant 
with delight. 

"Miss Nell," she said, poking her head 
in at my door, "I seen the hick-a-pox." 

"The what-a-pox?" said I. 

"The hick-a-pox, you know, Miss Nell; 
that big beast that lives in the water, and 
dries hisself on a flatform." 

Hannah never got names right, but 
there was no mistaking her meaning. At 
another time, after a raid on the Zoo, she 
said : 

"Miss Nell, I seen the most frightfullest 
thing up there at the zoogical gardens." 

"What was it, Hannah — the hick-a- 
pox?" 

"Oh, no, Miss Nell ! much wuss than the 
hick-a-pox." 

"Heavens ! what was it?" 

' * The stricknen-van-borax. * * 



230 The Tomboy at Work 

*' Never!" I exclaimed, by way of bluff. 

"Yes, Miss Nell, all crawled up, just 
like it was digestin' itself after eatin' 
another snake!" Then, with a shudder, 
"Them stricknen-van-boraxes is the most 
rememse snakes in the world, ain't they?" 

"Yes, Hannah, I believe they are." 

"They're big enough to skeer me inter 
fits, an' I don't want to see nothin' 
no bigger." 

Children's parties were a passion with 
Hannah, and every possible excuse was 
made to have them. Fortunately, I was 
not at home much during the day; but 
occasionally I surprised a most elaborate 
function at which the janitor's and washer- 
woman's children were allowed to partici- 
pate to the extent of refreshments. 
Hannah had too decided an idea of the 
difference between mistress and maid to 
let the mingling go beyond the ice-cream 
and cake hour. 

I don't know which Hannah enjoyed 
most — the society of babies, or that of 



The Tomboy at Work 231 

"growing children." I doubt whether she 
had any choice. All children loved her, and 
she was in some respects an ideal nurse. 
It was as a nurse that she had lived out in 
the South. The only trouble, her former 
employer wrote me, was that she assumed 
complete ownership of the child she took 
care of, and regarded the mother as an 
interloper. This would suit some mothers, 
but not all. She treated children as if 
they were companions, and talked with 
them as she would to persons of her own 
age. 

I remember one day hearing Hannah's 
voice from the kitchen, talking in a confi- 
dential manner, and, knowing that she had 
no callers, I stepped to the door to see what 
it meant. There was no one in the room but 
Hannah and a six-months-old baby, bor- 
rowed from another apartment in the same 
house. Hannah was looking out the 
window, and the baby was perched up on 
the washtubs. 

"Who are you talking to?" said I. 



232 The Tomboy at Work 

" I was just tellin' baby 'bout them new- 
comers 'cross the street. They're lovely 
people," she said, nodding approvingly. 
"They keep a full set er help." 

"The baby doesn't understand you," 
said I. 

"Don't you believe that. Miss Nell; 
babies understand a heap sight more ner 
people think." 

As I left the kitchen, Hannah resumed 
her conversation, while the baby "gooed" 
her comments. 

Hannah's age was a mystery. When she 
came to us, she said she was twenty-five; 
but the lady in the South with whom she 
had lived said that she was thirty-six at 
that time, which I imagine was correct, 
for Hannah had no idea of figures. She 
was absolutely ignorant of their meaning. 
She was then over forty. She didn't look 
it, however, for it was at this time that a 
ticket-seller at the Grand Central Station 
said to her, when she went to buy a ticket 
for New Rochelle, "Half-price for you, 



The Tomboy at Work 233 

little girl." Hannah had too keen a sense 
of humour not to act upon his suggestion. 

She was generous to a fault, and yet 
she didn't believe in throwing money 
away. She told me once that she would 
like to keep a little shop and sell things 
for what she paid for them. 

"You would have to sell them for more 
than you paid for them," I told her. 

"That ain't honest," she replied. 

"You wouldn't make money otherwise," 
I insisted. 

"I'd get my money back, though, and 
you don't want to do any more than that," 
she said, with conviction. There was no 
use in arguing with her. She had her 
own ideas on the subject of honesty, and 
would not change them. 



CHAPTER XXI 

Hannah was a faithful soul, as I have 
good reason to remember. One night, I 
was aroused from my sleep by her hand 
on my shoulder. 

"Miss Nell," she cried, "the house is on 
fire. Sound the relarm and save yo' 
mother." Then she pattered off down 
the hall, in her bare, black feet, to 
wake the others. Sure enough, the house 
was on fire. The apartment on the same 
floor with ours was entirely burned out, but 
ours was not scorched. We fled to the 
roof with my mother, and there met the 
rest of the tenants in varied array, among 
them Hannah, in her short, white night- 
gown, with her black feet peeping out 
below. It was an exciting night, and 
might have had a tragic ending but for 
Hannah's timely "relarm." 
234 



The Tomboy at Work 235 

Speaking of Hannah's black feet, I 
don't remember that I ever experienced a 
stranger sensation than one evening when 
I saw her dressed for a party. She had 
on a low-necked and short-sleeved white 
muslin dress, and the effect of the black 
neck and black arms protruding from 
the white gown was, to say the least, 
peculiar. It was not often that Hannah 
went to a party, but when she did she 
invariably arrayed herself in white. She 
was a creature of contrasts in more ways 
than one. 

Once she went to a wake. Our Irish 
washerwoman's husband had died, and 
his death was celebrated according to the 
custom of his people. Hannah was in- 
vited, and eagerly accepted the invitation. 

"Were they all drunk?" I asked the 
next morning. 

Hannah looked at me with a hurt ex- 
pression on her black face. 

"No, Miss Nell, it was a very respectupul 
wake. There was no one drunk 'cept 



236 The Tomboy at Work 

them that came drunk." I thought that 
even those might have been enough to 
have made a somewhat gay party, but I 
said nothing. 

"There was lovely flowers, too, and one 
piece, from his lodge, with *I. H. S.' on it 
in mortels." 

By the way of drawing her out, I said, 
"What does 'I. H. S.' mean?" 

"You know well enough. Miss Nell; 
they always have it at funuls. It means 
*I has ris.'" 

The theatre was a favourite amusement 
of Hannah's, and she confided to me that 
the play she liked best of all was Mr. 
Jefferson in "Rip-and-van Wipple." One 
evening, she stopped at my bedroom door, 
her face wreathed in smiles. 

"Miss Nell," she said, "I seen a fine play 
to-night." 

"What was it, Hannah?" 

"Funamabriscom," she said, and chuc- 
kled softly at the recollection. I was 
mystified for a moment ; then I remembered 



The Tomboy at Work 237 

that "Fun on the Bristol*' was the name 
of a farce running at one of the Broadway- 
theatres. 

" It ain't as nice as * Rip-and-van Wipple,' 
though," and Mr. Jefferson's inimitable 
creation remained her favourite to the 
end. 

Mme. Modjeska and her husband, the 
Count Bozenta, were among those who par- 
took of Hannah's Sunday breakfasts ; and, 
being fond of the theatre, she was anxious 
to see, in some of her famous parts, the 
actress who enjoyed her griddle-cakes so 
much. One morning, when she brought 
my cafe-au-lait to my bedside, she lingered 
at the door, and I knew that something 
was on her mind. 

"What is it, Hannah?" I asked. 

"Why, Miss Nell," she said, "I jest 
wanted to know if you wouldn't ask Mr. 
Presenta to give me tickets to see Madame 
Digesta in 'How Do You Like It'?" 

I had never come so near spilling a cup 
of coffee in my life before, but I pulled 



238 The Tomboy at Work 

myself together in time to save Hannah's 
feelings and the bedclothes. I need hardly 
say that a verbatim report of this request 
to "Mr. Present a" resulted in the tickets 
being sent to Hannah. She enjoyed the 
play very much, though she was rather 
shocked at Rosalind's costume in the forest 
of Arden, and thought that it would have 
been much more modest if she had worn 
longer skirts over her tights. 

"Then Orlando wouldn't have thought 
her a boy," I suggested. 

"O'Lander warn't no one's fool. He 
knowed she warn't no boy from the fust. 
He was only makin' * bleve' " — an argument 
that a wiser head than Hannah's might 
have put forth. 

Hannah was not all sweetness and light. 
She was subject to the blackest "dumps" 
I ever knew. When these "dumps" were 
on, she looked as stormy as a thunder- 
cloud, and her flashes of wrath were as 
sharp as lightning. During these occasions 
she always singled out one of the family to 



The Tomboy at Work 239 

smile upon, but the others she treated with 
sullen sarcasm. It was very trying, and 
we vowed every time that we would send 
her away; but when she came out from 
under the cloud she was so perfectly angelic 
and so amusing that we vowed we would 
never part with her. 

At last the storms came so frequently, 
and her conduct was so exasperating, 
that we could not put up with it any- 
longer; and when in a fit of temper she 
told me one day that she was going, I, 
much to her surprise, said that I 
thought it was the best thing that she 
could do. As I was really attached to the 
little creature, I got her a place as nurse, 
believing that a change would do her 
disposition good. She was the delight 
of her new mistress's heart for a while; 
then she got overbearing, and had to be 
sent away. And so she kept floating 
about, a year here and two years there, 
always keeping up her friendly relations 
with us, until finally she fell ill, at the age 



240 The Tomboy at Work 

of fifty, and was taken to the Presbyterian 
Hospital. 

There they made a pet of her, as we had 
done. I went to see her frequently, and 
took her fruit and flowers, as she would 
have done by me in similar circumstances. 
One day, the head nurse of the ward 
sent for me, and I hastened to the hospital, 
to find poor Hannah very near her end. 
She was perfectly calm, though she 
realised the truth. I sat by her cot, holding 
her thin, black hand in mine. She spoke 
slowly and with difficulty. 

"Miss Nell," and I bent over her, 
"you wouldn't think I'd saved a lot of 
money," and she smiled. "I've made a 
will, too, and left it all to Miss Catherine 
[the baby of the tubs, at this time a young 
lady of sixteen]. It's drawed up all 
right, and Mr. Rufus is my ex-ecutor." 

"It will be a long time before she'll get 
that money," said I cheeringly. "You're 
good for many a year yet." 

She only shook her head and pressed 



The Tomboy at Work 241 

my hand. It was Saturday, and I had 
to go out of town for over Sunday. 

"I'll see you on Monday, Hannah," 
said I. "Good-bye till then." 

"Do you see the white screems around 
them cots?" she whispered, pointing. I 
shuddered, for I knew what they meant. 
"They'll be one around my cot before 
Monday." 

As I turned at the door to look back 
and wave my hand to her, I saw her eyes 
following me with an expression I shall 
not soon forget. On Monday, I called 
at the hospital, only to find that I was 
too late to see Hannah alive. The white 
screen was around her cot; a bunch of 
roses stood on the little table. At the 
head of the cot a card was pinned, bearing 
the legend: 



HANNAH STREET 

GEORGIA 

Aged 35 



CHAPTER XXII 

Living in New York did not make us 
forget Birdlington. My mother and sisters 
spent their summers there, when possible, 
and I joined them for week-ends, as we 
say now. Things were very much the 
same. Aunt Maria still lived at Fair View, 
and the boys who lived next door had not 
yet gone out into the world. There was 
one of them, the youngest, who thought 
that he had a talent for writing, and he 
came to New York once to consult Dixey 
in the matter. 

"I would like to write for your magazine," 
he said as one who had only to be touched 
to spout poetry or prose. 

"What sort of writing?" said Dixey, by 
way of encouraging him, and also of 
drawing him out. 

**It is a matter of indifference to me,'* 
242 



The Tomboy at Work 243 

said the young man pompously; "either 
original or copying." 

Dixey fled to the back of the room to 
hide his emotions. "I would advise you 
to try copying," he said, when he could 
control his voice. "It will give you a 
wider range of subjects." 

The young man thanked him for his 
practical suggestion, and said that he 
would copy out some things at once and 
send them to him. 

Before leaving town, he called upon us, 
and my mother insisted upon his staying to 
luncheon. This he was pleased to do, as 
he had evidently come with that in- 
tention. He was a solemn young man, 
tall and thin, with short legs and a long 
body. He sat at the other end of the 
table from my mother, who, I noticed, 
regarded him rather curiously. Finally 
she said, "Sit down, Ernest; don't stand." 

"I am sitting down," said Ernest, and, 
sure enough, he was, but he sat so high 
that he gave the impression of one standing. 



244 The Tomboy at Work 

The Redmonds were still living at 
Birdlington, but the schoolmaster had 
gone. Kate rejected his proposal of mar- 
riage with so much emphasis that he 
resigned his position and left the town, 
broken-hearted. I dare say that he 
married some one else soon after, as is 
the manner of broken-hearted men. Per- 
haps she would have been happier if she 
had married the schoolmaster. Her mar- 
ried life was not a success, through no 
fault of hers. A good-looking young 
man, with pleasant and attractive man- 
ners, came up from Philadelphia and 
won her heart; but his beauty was only 
skin-deep, and his attractive manners 
were all on the surface. She bore her 
troubles bravely, though they ended only 
with the death of her husband. 

Nothing I enjoyed more than my 
visits to Birdlington. The quiet of Fair 
View, after the noise and hustle of New 
York, I found the most restful thing in the 
world. Aunt Maria still had her little 



The Tomboy at Work 245 

suppers, at which ''frizzled beef," Sapsago 
cheese, and hot biscuit played the leading 
parts. 

Poor, dear Aunt Maria! she would never 
have made a reporter, she was so unobserv- 
ing. She could never tell five minutes after 
she had been talking with a man whether 
he had a beard or was smooth-shaven. 
One of her neighbours called once, and 
she hadn't the remotest idea who he was, 
though she knew him well. Since his 
last call, he had treated himself to a full 
set of false teeth, which, I must admit, gave 
his mouth a strange expression. I was 
sitting on the veranda with Aunt Maria 
when he called, and, though I recognised 
him instantly, I could see by her puzzled 
expression that she had not the remotest 
idea who he was. Something tickled his 
nose, and he sneezed. He sneezed with 
such force that his teeth went flying out 
over the grass. It was only then that 
Aunt Maria recognised him, and by the 
time he had picked them up and slipped 



246 The Tomboy at Work 

them into his coat-tail pocket, she was 
ready to take up the conversation intelli- 
gently, whereas before she was utterly 
at sea. 

Aunt Maria was not only very kind- 
hearted, but she had a strong sense of duty. 
If any of the neighbours died, whether 
she knew the family or not, she v/ent 
to the funeral, as an expression of neigh- 
bourly sympathy. Once, when I was 
spending a Sunday with her, she expressed 
a desire to have me call at a neighbour's 
house, where there had been a death, to 
leave a message of condolence from her, 
as she was not well enough to go herself. 
She did not know the people, or what the 
girl had died of, but they were fellow 
townsmen, and that was quite enough 
for her. 

The house was on a back street, and, 
though I did not know it by sight, it was 
not hard to find. Half the town seemed 
to be standing in front of it. In the 
crowd, I saw the charwoman who used to 



The Tomboy at Work 247 

clean house for us in the old days— the one 
who objected to the statuary. "Don't 
you go in there," said she, grasping me 
by the arm. "They don't let no one go 
inside, for she died of spotted-fever. 
You ken see the corpse if you look over 
the fence and peek inter the front winder." 
I was not anxious to see the corpse, but 
my eyes followed the direction of her 
finger, and there, sure enough, set up in the 
front window, was the coffin, with the 
dead girl in it. She had a wreath of 
flowers on her head, and a gilt chain, with a 
large gilt locket on it, around her neck. 
It was a ghastly sight, but the crowd 
enjoyed it, and sighed, "How natural." 
There is a class of people who think they 
have not done their duty by their be- 
reaved neighbours until they have gazed 
upon the face of the dead, and it was to 
gratify their friends that the parents of 
this dead girl hit upon the idea of putting 
her in the window. I took the char- 
woman's advice, and did not go into the 



248 The Tomboy at Work 

house. As a matter of fact, I hastened 
back to Fair View and tried to forget what 
I had seen. 

My visits to Birdlington were not so 
frequent as I should have liked. I was 

very busy with my work on the and 

with my letters, and I was always planning 
to have a paper of my own. I suppose 
that this craving for the ownership of a 
periodical was in the blood. However, I 

stayed with the for many years, and 

was the only woman on the staff for a long 
time. Indeed, there were not half a 
dozen women journalists in all New York, 
then. There was Kate Field, who was 
a free lance, and not attached to any one 
paper; and there was "Jennie June," who 
wrote fashion letters; and there was Miss 
Ellen Hutchinson, of the Tribune; and 
there was a woman on the Sun — this was 
about all. 

Every one said that I worked too hard, 
and perhaps I did, but I did not know it. 
I was working along the line of my sym- 



The Tomboy at Work 249 

pathies, and it was so pleasant that I did 
not realise that it was work. I got used 
to late hours, and throve under them. 
There was so much variety in my work 
that it almost seemed like play. I was 
considered a ''star" interviewer, and 
met many interesting people in this 
branch of my work. I made it a rule to 
show the person interviewed the proof 
of what I had written, so that there could 
be no denials when it was too late. I was 
never asked to interview an unwilling 
victim, and I am very glad that I was not, 
for I doubt that I should have accepted 
the assignment. 

One of my early duties was to write up 
a reception to Mme. Sarah Bernhardt, on 
the occasion of her first visit to America. 
It was supposed to be a reception given 
to the distinguished actress by the ladies 
of New York, but it was all arranged by 
her personal manager, the late Henry 
Jarrett, one of the cleverest men in the 
business. I did not care much about going 



250 The Tomboy at Work 

to receptions, and tried to beg off, but 
without success. My wardrobe of recep- 
tion costumes was limited, but my sisters, 
who were anxious to have me go, said that 
they would rig me up. I refused point- 
blank the suggestion of a V-shaped corsage, 
but was prevailed upon to wear Marty's 
bonnet. I had never had one of my own 
since the night of the opera in Trenton. I 
did not want to wear the bonnet, but they 
all said that I should be very conspicuous 
if I didn't; so, not wanting to attract 
attention to myself, I consented. 

I arrived rather late upon the scene. 
Mme. Bernhardt was already there, 
and was surrounded by a crowd of 
admirers, expressing their admiration in 
all kinds of French. You should have 
seen that crowd break away from Mme. 
Sarah the moment its eyes rested upon 
my bonnet. Most of the men and 
women who composed it knew me, but 
they had never seen me in that sort of 
a rig. I really felt sorry for Mme. 



The Tomboy at Work 251 

Sarah, for she stood alone except for 
Mr. Jarrett. ** Where did you get it?" 
"Whose is it?" and other pertinent and 
impertinent questions were fired at me. 
Mme. Sarah regarded me curiously. Mr. 
Jarrett was getting nervous. He turned 
to the nearest lady for an explanation. 
It was given him, and he repeated it to 
his "star," who smiled graciously, and 
waited for the crowd to return, which it 
soon did. 

When I got home, I gave Marty's bonnet 
back to her. "Well," said I, "if wearing 
my own hat would have made me any 
more conspicuous than wearing your 
bonnet, I'm glad I wore the bonnet." 

I have not worn a bonnet since, and, as 
hats are worn nowadays by octogenarians, 
I shall continue to wear one to the end 
of my life. 

In due course I bade good-bye to daily 
journalism, but I am still a journalist and 
still in harness, though the harness is light, 



252 The Tomboy at Work 

and easy to slip off should I want to 
drop it. I shall probably wear it to the 
end, which is the way when one's work 
is congenial. 

The End 



By JEANNETTE L. GILDER 

Author of " The Tomboy at Work'' 



The Autobiography of 
a Tomboy 



From Father to Daughters.-*' I have been pleased far beyond 
ordinary delight with your fine Autobiography of a Tomboy. Its farst 
appeal was to myself alone-both as boy (in memory) and man. The 
child in it charmed me-the literature none the less. But a new enjoy- 
ment has come with reading it aloud to my own tomboys."-From the 
President of a Western College. 

In the Theatre.-" The Tomboy reached me yesterday. I tucked 
her under my arm as I marched off to rehearsal, and had a bully time 
with her between my scenes. I was never more interested and capti- 
vated by a book in my life." — K. K. 

To Love and Chuckle Over.-" One of the most delightful things 
of the kind produced in our day and generation. ... Her book is 
one to read and love. It is literature of a delightful sort ; with a quiet 
chuckle on every page, and a capital illustration by Mrs. Shmn on every 
other."— Julian Hawthorne in Philadelphia North American. 

A Book to Read and Re-read.-" This is a delightful, breezy, and 
mirth-provoking book-the story of a strong, healthy, honest-hearted 
girl, who took life by the skirt at the start and swung on with a merry 
will. Miss Gilder knows her Tomboy and depicts her lovingly and 
charmingly. . . . Miss Gilder's book will be read, laughed over, 
and put aside to be taken up again. It is brimful of genuine life and 
the style suits well the swift dramatic strokes of character and in- 
cident."— ^A^ Independent, New York. 

Illustrated by Florence Sco'vel Shinn 
$1.25 

Doubleday, Page & Company, New York 



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